The Incredibly Heroic Adventures Of Yusuf Tazim
by iguanablogger
Summary: He wasn't always a 45-year-old wisecracking nutjob.
1. I: In Which Second Thoughts Are Had

Constantinople, 1488.

"…And what do you think of him?"

"_Alahim_ (god),Marwad, you talk about him as though he were new here."

"He is! A recruit of but one summer cannot be counted as a full Assassin. And furthermore," The man's voice lowered, "I do not believe Ishak was right in choosing him."

"Perfect, now we are questioning Ishak's judgment."

The one known as Marwad simply leaned back against the cushions and took another sip of smoke. His bedraggled appearance had not done much to convince his companions that his opinion was a worthy one. The other two merely ignored him and continued to relax, enjoying their few hours of down time.

"I have faith in him," An older Assassin, female, continued, "He has shown much promise recently."

"Promise," Marwad mocked with a snort, placing the incense pipe on the carpet. "The only promise that boy has shown is that when he leaves, you won't have any _akci_in your pockets!"

But before his friend could put forth her argument, their spice box exploded with a rather large and messy bang. For a moment, the three recruits sat, shocked, as a thin smoke dusted their heads.

Then the room filled with a long and happy cackle.

"Your faces!" A young man insisted, mirth bordering on hysteria, "You should have seen your faces!"

The Assassins only watched as their youngest member sprinted past, giggling insanely.

There was brief silence, then:

"You were right, Marwad. Ishak must be growing old."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"Yusuf, my boy, come in. I have an important concept to teach you today."

These were his only words of welcome as the twenty-one year-old Turk entered the Grand Master's office, grinning. The after-effect of his last prank evidently prevented him from noticing he was about to take a beating.

Yusuf took a seat at Ishak's desk and folded his hands innocently in his lap. The old man sat back and stared at him. After a while, he sighed and rubbed his eyes, leaning forward on the desk.

"Yusuf," The Master Assassin began, "How many street rats do I see daily?"

The young man frowned, "_Efendim_ (master)?"

"Answer the question."

Yusuf thought. And while he thought, he began to became aware of something; A small gnawing sensation at the base of his stomach. The Turk groaned inwardly- he was no stranger to this feeling. If he remembered correctly, his body liked to do this when the Assassin in question might be experiencing 'guilt'.

"Four?" He guessed.

Ishak shook his head.

"Seven?" Yusuf guessed again.

"Yesterday I counted fifteen, _oglum_ (my boy)."

Yusuf supposed he did not know what to think about that. As it was, his father of a mentor didn't seem to have a point that he could make out.

"Yusuf," Ishak sighed again, "It was only one year ago that _you_were one of those street rats."

"I beg to differ, _beyefendi_ (sir)-!"

But the Grand Assassin raised his hand, and Yusuf had enough respect to silence himself (but oh, how it hurt his pride to be called a 'street rat'. He was an _infamous_ street rat! A street panther, at least!).

"I have received so many complaints about you these past few months," Ishak proceeded, glaring at Yusuf with the disappointment only a teacher could muster, "That I am beginning to doubt myself. How many of those fifteen would gladly jump up, were I to offer them your place as a disciple of the Creed?"

The gnawing feeling had progressed by this point. It was now popping holes in his organs, causing them to churn and sink.

"You have talent, Yusuf. Pure talent. You are a leader, though you don't know it." The old man smiled, "In fact, I could well imagine you taking my place one day."

Yusuf looked up (had he really been staring at his hands?).

"Truly?"

"_Evet_ (yes)," Ishak replied, "You have what it takes, certainly. But not if I find your throat slit by a fellow student because you have slipped scorpions into his dinner again!"

Yusuf's lopsided grin returned. He reminded himself to go for Marwad's boots next time.

Ishak leaned back in his chair and gave the young man a good, hard look.

"Ah, what's the use," he muttered finally, "You're too much like your father. Words go in one ear and out the opposite."

Sensing they were finished, Yusuf made to stand, bowing his head in respect as he did so.

"_Tesekkur__ederiz_ (thank you)-"

"Do not think there will be no consequences, Tazim!" Ishak interrupted him, waving his finger at the boy in a warning fashion, "One more complaint and you will be out!"

Yusuf tried to contain his snorts of laughter until after he'd left the mentor's office.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The den was quieter once news of Yusuf's scolding became public. Most of the recruits had their own cliques, established many years previously by Ishak himself, for contextual reasons. Each squad normally consisted of a hidden blade, two knives, two crossbows, and an axe, but Yusuf could not find himself fitting into any of those categories, which suited the others fine.

However, the young man's reputation as an infamous thief had made friends a…difficult challenge. Suffice it to say that Yusuf had become the victim of an ugly rumor.

Which he supposed he deserved, after the scorpion incident.

But none of the Assassins could disprove Yusuf's skill with the hookblade. That was undisputable. In fact, if they were a tad nicer to him, Yusuf might have been inclined to teach them a trick or two.

Once again, he noted as he wandered the den, his fellows had set to ignoring him. Yusuf received a round of stone-cold stares as he approached a group sitting around a hookah pipe.

"Greetings, _arkadaslar_ (friends)," He smiled and spread his hands harmlessly, "No bombs with me today. May I sit?"

They only watched him. Though no words of rejection were spoken, no one shifted to make room.

Yusuf waited a few more moments before backing away. With Ishak's words swimming in his head, and this new exclusion from his brothers, the young Assassin decided it was time to hit the roof.

As he briskly walked towards the door, he picked up the words 'upstart' and 'bastard' from the den's walls.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"…And now no one likes me." Yusuf concluded heavily, bowing his head to his chest.

Constantinople had no reply.

Talking to the skyline had been a hobby of his since first arriving in Konstantinyye, nearly thirteen years ago. Yusuf hardly even remember Bursa…

When he had stepped off the boat, grasping his mother's hand, his eyes had widened in amazement. The city just seemed so alive- everything moving, breathing, speaking. As a young child, the Tazim had come to believe that everything in Constantinople carried some spark of life- even the skyline. Perhaps especially the skyline.

Today was no different. Yusuf sighed as he prepared to recollect his heart and stuff it back into the easily pourable jug it came from.

"I like you," A dry voice from behind him said, "But I've always been a 'no one'."

"How true," Yusuf chuckled and patted the sun-warmed tiles besides him. The cloaked stranger sat without another word.

"So," He began after a spot of silence, "I hear things are not well with the great Assassin_, _Yusuf Tazim."

"This is also true," The older boy answered, not taking his eyes off the city lights.

"I told you not to go," The voice chided, "That place is not right for you. You belong down on the roads, with us."

Yusuf snorted, "My father was one of them, Zavi. How could I not belong."

The black-robed thief known as Zavi left that comment to hang in the air, snaking around the two friends insidiously. It was the one factor that had divided them a few years back, and eventually led to their separation.

"You don't know that for sure," The cloaked youth began cautiously, "Your mother told you that, no?"

"_Evet,__" _Yusuf agreed, "But…She seemed so certain. And what else could have happened to him? Sometimes-" He stopped.

"What?" Zavi turned his swaddled head, blue eyes wide with curiosity. "What is it?"

Yusuf turned slowly, expression clouded.

"One of the Assassins, Marwad," He explained, "He told me he saw my father die. Stabbed by a Templar, he claims."

"He can't know that." Zavi insisted.

"But then," Yusuf shook his head, "He said to me; 'and I wouldn't be surprised to see you in the same sticky situation one day'."

"What _sacmalik_ (bullshit)!" Zavi exclaimed, throwing up a bandaged hand. "Yusuf, do not believe that bastard. I do not know where your father is, but if he's related to you, he came up with a clever escape."

The Turk watched his friend carefully, unsure of what to think. He felt anger towards Marwad- his _brother-_and yet he felt sadness, because on some deep level he knew the man was right. His father would never come home.

But was it the Assassins that had taken him away, with their long, tiresome speeches about humanity and free will? Or the bite of Templar steel?

"Zavi," Yusuf sighed his friend's name and buried his forehead in his kneecaps, "I…I think I am confused."

"Yusuf Tazim? Confused? Now that's a start."

But the robed child moved closer and placed a hand on Yusuf's shoulder.

"If you'd like one more opinion to poke and prod," Zavi suggested quietly, "It _might _be ok for you to stay with them."

"Stay?" Yusuf repeated, lifting his clear eyes to meet Zavi's blue.

"They will take care of you," The orphan admitted, "And… If it really was your father's work, you should embrace it- not throw it away."

"But to murder?" Yusuf whispered, "To kill and maim? That is my destiny?"

"Yusuf," Zavi began, "If I had even the basest scrap of information as to who my father was, I would write a book of it."

Silence.

"When you have such little family, you don't have the luxury of tossing something out because you don't believe in it."

Again, Yusuf said nothing.

"Alright, alright! So I'm not great with words!" Zavi spluttered loudly, folding his arms and skulking.

But Yusuf only smiled.

"How about this for a 'thank you'?" The Turk opened his arms wide and tilted his head coyly. The heavily robed boy fell into his embrace and the two sat quietly.

"I will miss you, Yusuf Tazim." Zavi said.

"This is not goodbye, _yakin __dostron_ (my dear friend). This is not goodbye."


	2. II: Templars And Peacocks Are Similar

Constantinople, 1489

"Ah, there he is…" Yusuf murmured, squinting hard at the street below, "And I can already see his peacock-plumed head."

"You've found the captain?" Hisham sounded astonished, "Already?"

Yusuf merely nodded and began his careful descent to the ground.

The small district was nearly empty of people, which made it difficult for the Assassins to approach the barracks unnoticed. Yusuf and Hisham often scuttled around corners when even the farthest Byzantine patrols approached, afraid of direct conflict with their numbers.

When the coast was clear, Hisham pulled on Yusuf's arm.

"I do not like this plan, Yusuf." The younger man warned.

"Why ever not?" Yusuf raised his brows, but relaxed and allowed Hisham to escort him further away from their target, "It's nice and simple- I provide a distraction, ridding the area of innocent bystanders, while you slip in with the gunpowder and knock those Templar _picler _(bastards)off their feet."

Hisham's eyes drifted to the large satchel on his back, which contained enough gunpowder to level a building, then he bit his lip and looked away, "I know, but… It seems too risky. What if an innocent were to be hurt in the blast?"

"Look around, Hisham," Yusuf replied, impatience gritting his tone, "There's hardly anyone out on the streets today. We should strike now, before that changes."

Hisham said nothing, but the nervous look did not leave his face.

"Fine," Yusuf sighed, "I will find a way to make sure the area is empty. Now get in there."

"_Kesinlikle, __efendim._(certainly, master)_" _The young man bowed his head and scurried off.

The twenty-two year old Assassin folded his arms and thought. This new development required some changes to the plan...

Yusuf dipped his hand into his bomb pouch, frowning as he probed. If he remembered correctly, there should still be… The Turk's features relaxed when his fingers wrapped around a thin bag and pulled it out for the youth to examine.

"Perfect," Yusuf grinned, tossing the sticky pouch in his hand playfully.

After a few short revisions, the Assassin found his plan to work even better than he'd originally estimated. Before enacting part one, however, he patrolled the area, running the parameter of the Templar barracks Ishak had charged them with destroying. Yusuf made a point of waving at the earlier-spotted captain as he passed by. Honestly, the Templars had so much in common with peacocks…

It seemed Hisham's fears were not completely irrational; towards the barracks' back entrance, a herald stood ranting to an intermediate crowd. If the building were to explode, some of these citizens could (conceivably, Yusuf added) get hurt. And so the Turk commenced phase one of his master plan:

Yusuf rounded the corners of the barracks, planting a sticky pouch on each one. The young craftsman was in charge of most of the Assassins' bombs, and he knew for a fact that the stickies, as he occasionally referred to them, had a long fuse. He only had five, so it was quite fortunate there were only a few citizens outside today…

Once all the bombs had been planted, Yusuf made a large show of stumbling into the main plaza.

"Everyone!" He shouted breathlessly, waving for the crowd's attention, "Everyone, listen!"

Due mostly to curiosity, the herald fell silent and gave Yusuf his chance to speak.

"I've found a bomb right here in this _kare_(square)_!__" _The Turk allowed his voice to waver in mock panic, when in reality he fought to keep the smirk from his face. "It's leaking a strange gas!"

A few sharp breathes popped from the crowd, along with hurried whispers.

"Where is your proof?" One man asked.

"You'll have to trust me!" Yusuf insisted, eyes widening, "Everyone, get away from the barracks, quickly!"

"Rabble-rouser!" Another citizen accused.

"Don't listen to him!"

A look of shock came over the young Assassin, and he opened his mouth to defend himself; but instead a ragged cough tore free of his throat.

The people watched in keen horror as Yusuf quickly doubled up, retching.

"_Lutfen, __efendim_ (listen, master)_!__" _He choked out, giving the stunned crowd one last, desperate look, "Run away!"

Screams pierced the air as the Assassin collapsed onto the dirt. Yusuf allowed himself a small smile as shouts of fear and panic whirled about like storm clouds. The skunk bombs were active by now, flushing out those few pesky skeptics.

After waiting a few more moments, Yusuf squinted an eye open. Much to his delight, the plaza stood empty.

However, Yusuf related as he picked himself up, something was not right. He should have heard from Hisham by now. The plan was for the younger Assassin to infiltrate the barracks and plant the explosives, then signal from the building's roof. Yet when he glanced upwards, the Turk's eyes met no one.

Yusuf gave a short grunt of annoyance as he altered his course. He would need to find the boy himself if this mission was to succeed. The Assassin traced the steps he'd seen his partner take earlier, often holding his sleeve to his nose to block out the skunk oil fumes.

When he passed the Templar captain passed out in a puddle of his own drool, he gave him a little kick.

The inner courtyard was clear, what with the usual guards incapacitated. Yusuf walked right in, casually pulling open the entrance door, where Hisham would have entered first.

Immediately after entering, Yusuf detected armored footsteps. He threw himself against the wall, peeking around the corner to find a patrol of Byzantine elites.

One of them carried a bloody blade.

The Turk waited impatiently for them to leave before running softly down the corridor. He hadn't wandered far however, when he heard a raspy voice call out:

"Yusuf…"

He paused, glancing about warily. The hallway was deserted, meaning the voice had to be coming from the near-invisible closet door to his right.

Yusuf opened it slowly, and stepped inside the dimly lit storage cabinet. As he feared, there lay Hisham, with his satchel at his side.

The older Assassin crouched down, gathering his companion's battered body into his arms.

"Forgive me, mentor." Hisham whispered.

"_Arkadashim, __iyidir,_(it's fine, my friend)_" _Yusuf replied gently, "Save your strength."

Hisham fell silent and closed his eyes.

Yusuf sighed, brushing his fingertips against the stab wounds in the young man's stomach. The Byzantines must have dumped him in here when they'd grown tired of toying with him.

"Rest well, my friend." The Turk muttered as he grabbed the satchel from the floor and exited.

Technically, Yusuf could have set the explosive up anywhere- he was carrying enough powder to sink a boat, not to mention an extra-special component just arrived from _Venedik_ (Venice)(Which, Yusuf admitted, he'd never seen in action before, but remembered reading was 'very explosive'). But he decided it best to find the barracks' center for a more wholesome effect.

After evading a few more patrols, he found it: a large, two-floor auditorium, currently empty. Yusuf could hardly believe his luck.

Relying greatly on his hookblade, the Assassin scaled the room's wooden supports to reach the upper balcony, where a large window led out to the street; the perfect escape.

As he put down the satchel and began to unload, Yusuf also noted that the window had a wooden covering, complete with latch. An unnecessary addition, as he found no reason to seal the window if he were going to demolish the structure anyway, but Yusuf had never claimed to understand the Byzantine architectural mind.

When he connected the six-second fuse, Yusuf noticed a long cable sporting a dumbwaiter that could travel easily between floors. The cable looked strong, but he didn't feel the need to test it.

The auditorium had two main doors. If he had to guess, Yusuf would assume they led to the inner courtyard. By the time he had processed all of this, the explosives were ready to go.

Yusuf climbed to his feet and took a moment to admire his handiwork. He had only just struck a match when the front doors burst open.

"_Suikastci _(Assassin)_!__" _One of the many Templar soldiers exclaimed, "Stop!"

Before he could react, a crossbow bolt hurled itself at him from the same door he'd walked through only minutes earlier. Yusuf managed to dodge, but the missile hit the window latch dead-on and sealed the Turk's only escape.

"Nowhere to run!" The new squad's leader helpfully pointed out, leveling his crossbow to fire another shot.

Yusuf held the match over the keg of gunpowder, watching with interest as the flame devoured the tiny stick.

"If you light that bomb, you too will be killed in the blast!" Another of the Templars warned.

Yusuf only smiled and let the match fall.

And what happened within the next six seconds was quite a blur in the young Turk's memory. His enemy's weapon went off, but by that time Yusuf was sailing down on the dumbwaiter's cable, using his hookblade as an anchor.

He leapt from the cable onto the face of one of the Byzantines guarding the doors. Yusuf quickly rolled off him and propelled himself into the inner courtyard.

But he never hit the ground.

The room exploded violently and flames gushed from every exit. Ash and dust plumed all around, and the mere force of the blast threw the Assassin at least ten feet into the air, where he cartwheeled helplessly until crashing into an inky blackness…

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

When Yusuf finally squinted an eye open, it was the great blue sky that filled his vision. Muffled voices reached his ears, and though his mind could identify them, he did not feel the need to think at the moment.

"…waking up." A female voice commented.

Yusuf felt himself being set down on something rough. A small hand grasped the base of his neck and a much larger one supported his back. When both eyes were opened, two faces filtered into view.

"Yusuf?" The woman asked tentatively, "Can you hear us?"

The Turk blinked slowly, and it was then he first encountered the pain.

If he'd had the energy to, he would have cried out in agony. Instead all he could do was moan:

"My…leg," Yusuf murmured, fighting hard to keep his head above the tumbling waves of torment erupting from his left calf, "How bad is it?"

"Not too bad," A much deeper voice responded- it was now that Yusuf was beginning to recognize them. Both were fellow Assassins; Naima, the girl, and Adin- the mountain of a man.

His allies offered him some room as Yusuf struggled to sit up. However when his brain received the image his eyes were sending him, his jaw dropped and bile filled his throat.

Not only did his leg hurt something awful, it was also bent at a ninety-degree angle.

"Oh god," Yusuf gasped, vaguely aware of the color fleeing his face, "Oh dear god, _what __happened __to __me?__" _

"It's alright, Yusuf-" Naima tried to sound calm, but her voice did not have the intended affect.

"Alright? _Alright?__" _The wounded Assassin whimpered, "_Tanri __ve __butun __melekleri __(_God and all his angels above)_,_my leg is on _backwards!__" _

Adin shifted anxiously, silently begging Naima for advice. The large man had always been a tad slow.

"We can fix it-!" But no sooner had she opened her mouth than Yusuf let out a tortured scream. His anguish did little to improve Adin's stress levels, and the Assassin flinched when Yusuf's iron grip found his arm.

"Dear Allah, it hurts!" Yusuf cried, sweat dampening his collar.

"Please, Yusuf, just calm down!" If anything, Naima's pleas only served to agitate him further.

Adin began to panic when Yusuf's grip only tightened until it was a skeletal hand that clutched his robe, "Please, _arkadas _(dear friend)_,__" _He heard the younger man beg, "Just kill me. Put me out of my misery!"

"Naima?" Adin looked up at his partner helplessly.

"Stop whining, you _kucuk __kiz _(little girl)!" The female snarled in frustration as she took another look at his injury.

Yusuf shrieked again when she prodded his leg.

"I beg of you, please!" The crippled man spat out as soon as he was able, "Just run me through!"

"Tazim-!"

There was a loud and rather disgusting crack when Adin snapped Yusuf's bones back into their natural position quite suddenly.

And the inky blackness returned.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

When at long last consciousness returned to the young Turk, it was Ishak's face that welcomed it.

"Master-" Yusuf tried to say, but when his lips parted the Master Assassin waved his hand for silence.

"Yusuf Tazim," Ishak chuckled, "You certainly are full of surprises."

Again, Yusuf tried to speak.

"If you are curious about your leg, it will heal. You are quite fortunate it wasn't shattered," The mentor continued, "That Adin has quite the strong sword arm when he gets upset."

By now Yusuf knew better than to expect a chance to defend himself.

"I hear your mission was a success," Ishak related, "But…" He hesitated before looking down on his groggy apprentice, "What ever became of young Hisham?"

"I'm sorry, master. He did not make it." Yusuf replied.

Ishak nodded grimly and folded his hands in his lap. After a few moments of silence, the teacher remarked:

"You are reckless, Yusuf. Much as your father was."

"I have been told this, _ogretmen _(mentor)."

"But I still believe you have the power to become something great," Ishak said softly, "Greater than I was, perhaps."

Yusuf kept his comments on that statement within.

Finally, the old man stood with a sigh and made to exit. On his way out he gave Yusuf a pat on the shoulder, and the Turk closed his eyes and rested, looking forward to a long month of vacation.


	3. III: In Which Fezzes Are Durable

Constantinople, 1490

Ishak's office hadn't changed much in the last few years. It still consisted of three things: a desk, a chair, and a table. The elderly Master Assassin had very simple taste, despite his royal status. Simple, yet not necessarily uncomfortable. Yusuf experienced this personally when, for the millionth time, he sat himself across from his mentor's rough gaze in a nice, plush seat.

"Yusuf," Ishak began, "I have a special assignment for you."

"I am honored, _ogretmen_(mentor)," The dark-haired man bowed his head.

"A wealthy Byzantine supporter plans to throw a banquet tomorrow evening to spread the word of his… noble cause. Many Templar benefactors will be meeting there, as wells as potential Templar recruits."

"Ah," Yusuf nodded, "You would have me kill them?"

"No," Ishak replied, "I want you to befriend them."

The younger Assassin raised his eyebrows as his teacher pushed a long and detailed piece of parchment toward him on the desk. Yusuf picked it up and studied it carefully.

"An invitation?"

"_Evet_(yes). I want you to get to know these new Templars as best you can."

"Why?"

"Yusuf," Ishak sighed and folded his hands on the polished wood surface. "We may be Assassins, but that does not mean every situation must end with death. Many of these guests can be persuaded that the Byzantines are not worth their time."

Yusuf snorted, "The only good Templar is a dead Templar."

"And that sort of thinking," Ishak explained with a frown, "is the reason you will not be going alone."

The Turk tilted his head, beckoning the Master to proceed.

"I have decided Naima will accompany you-"

"-What?" Yusuf interrupted suddenly, eyes wide, "But, Master!"

"Silence!"

Yusuf backed down. Shame was already blossoming on his cheeks from such an outburst. It was not often Ishak grew angry with him.

There was a pregnant moment as the Grand Master recollected himself with a cough.

"_Benim__ogrencim_(my pupil)," He restarted grimly, "You are one of my best Assassins. Your skill with the hidden blade and its like is almost unprecedented." Ishak paused, "But if you do not learn to control that temper, it will be the end of you!"

"I understand, mentor." Yusuf murmured to his lap.

"Good," The old man let out another sigh. It seemed to the Bursan that lately Ishak had seemed more tired and sickly. "Naima is out picking up your costumes."

"_Ogretmen,_ won't you at least reconsider?"

"Reconsider what, Yusuf?"

Yusuf bit his lip as he mulled over what to say and what not to. For the past six months, he and the Assassin Naima had been…involved. Nothing too serious, but their relationship was well known.

However, when they'd first begun to see each other, they promised to keep work out of it. Both Yusuf and Naima were skilled leaders, but their tactics differed drastically. Yusuf preferred to go on the offensive and to tackle the obstacles as they came- Naima would spend up to weeks planning the finest details of a mission.

Needless to say, they did not make a very effective pair. Still, Yusuf would sooner eat his boots than admit to Ishak that he wouldn't take the assignment because it meant partnering with a girl.

"Nothing, mentor. Thank you."

-0-

Evening was one of the most colorful spectacles Konstantiniyye's skyline had to offer. The autumn wind was setting in, and the sky, usually hazy, was now crisp with sunset.

Blue shades descended on the couple as they strolled towards the courtyard gates, nearly indistinguishable in the rabble of people eager to find their families and warm dinners. Two impressive looking guards waited for the two at their iron destination, along with another couple of well-dressed guests.

The guards stepped aside and opened the gates, allowing the first group in. But when the second arrived, they hesitated.

"This celebration is by invitation only." A helmeted fellow announced with a frown.

"Ah, yes, the invitation," The young man replied nervously, adjusting the fez atop his curling dark hair as he searched his pockets with the other hand. "I know I have it here…"

"You mean this note, _efendim?__" _The man's companion, a small woman whose features were completely hidden from view by a silky veil, suggested as she removed a long piece of parchment from her purse.

The guard took the paper and read it slowly. Then he nodded to his fellows, and the gates were reopened.

"Enjoy yourselves, _onur__konuklari_(honored guests)."

The man with the fez bowed gratefully before rushing inside. He waited until they out of earshot before whispering to his partner:

"What do you think? Should I go for the nervous newlywed? Or the irritating know-it-all?"

Though she knew no one would see it, the young woman rolled her eyes, "Neither. They're both annoying as hell. Remember, Yusuf, we're here to make friends, not have forks stabbed through our eyes."

"Hey, that's _Habib_to you," Yusuf corrected her defensively, "And try to remember we're married. No good wife would call her husband 'annoying as hell'."

Naima had no response other than a defeated groan. When they had finally arrived at the gathering, their host approached to greet them.

"Ah, there you are!" The tall man exclaimed, slowing as to oblige the sloshing glass of wine in his hand, "I have been waiting on you, Habib!"

Yusuf couldn't help but cock a brow as he craned his neck to locate his patron's face. And if he felt he was short, Naima was only half this man's height! The dark-skinned Templar must be extremely wealthy to afford the number of friends Yusuf counted surrounding them.

"Well, we couldn't really stay away from an old _kardashim_ (brother), now could we?" The disguised Turk laughed good-naturedly, slapping their host on the part of his shoulder that he could reach.

"I suppose not," The patron blinked, "Especially considering this is our first time meeting in person."

An incredibly awkward silence began to sprout between the two men, but Naima managed to leap forward and strangle it with a quiet cough.

"That wine certainly looks enticing, _efendim._" She said, gesturing daintily to the glass.

"It is, _bayan_ (my lady)," The host turned his attention to her with a smile, "And I do not believe we've met. I have not spoken with Habib for a few weeks now, but I am certain you are not a relation."

"Oh dear, you haven't received my letters?" Yusuf interjected, but he was wholly ignored.

"I am his consort." Naima answered.

"-wife." Yusuf amended.

Their lofty sponsor didn't seem to notice the disagreement, "In any event, I look forward to seeing more of you this evening."

He nodded at Yusuf before briskly striding away to mingle further with another group of guests.

"I suggest we split up," Naima hooked her arm around his and muttered in his ear, "we'll learn more that way. Meet me in this plaza in thirty minutes."

Yusuf agreed, and his companion slipped away. The Assassins walked off in different directions, each with their sights set on a different cluster of would-be Templars.

However after half an hour of subtle investigation, the veiled girl could not find even a trace of her partner in the plaza. Worry paced in her chest as she poked around for him. He couldn't have gotten caught already…

She began to branch out to the surrounding plazas that made up the estate. After searching another twenty minutes, it was apparent he had forgotten their plan. Naima searched high and low for the young Bursan until he nearly plowed into her.

"Yu- Habib!" She gasped, quickly regaining balance.

Yusuf was only a little worse for wear. He was grinning sloppily and his cheeks were flushed.

"The wine here," He hiccupped, "It's good wine."

"_Yus-_" Naima nearly slapped herself for ignoring his new name, "Habib! You cannot be drunk this early!"

"_Onun__dugun__gecesi__bir__aptal__gibi_(like a fool on his wedding night)_,_" Yusuf chuckled, "believe it."

"Oh I do," The woman gritted her teeth as she grabbed his hand and began to pull him away, "I do."

They received a few concerned glances as the larger suddenly Assassin pitched forward. Naima successfully caught him and laboriously dragged the giggling Turk around the nearest corner until they were hidden from view.

Immediately, he straightened up. Naima watched in confusion as Yusuf wiped his eyes and climbed to his feet, still flushed, but beginning to appear sober.

"Excuse me?" She remarked after a while.

"Ah, you fell for it, my darling," Yusuf smirked, "You wouldn't believe what men say when they are drunk."

"I think I've heard too much already," She commented wryly.

"Oh please, I'm not actually drunk. I'm just acting! See?"

And before she could protest, the stoner face returned. Naima had to admit, Yusuf had a talent for making himself look completely and utterly intoxicated.

"Alright, if you're such a great actor, tell me what you learned." She folded her arms and shifted her weight.

"Nothing too special," He shrugged, "However I don't think some of our friends will be coming back. While I was pretending to be under the influence," He gave a miniscule cough, "I dropped a few...frightening anecdotes."

"What level of frightening?" Naima asked suspiciously.

"Oh, just some friendly gossip. Spreading some popular Byzantine hobbies- high treason against the Ottoman Empire and rape, to name a few."

"And you're certain they won't come back?"

"Quite," Yusuf nodded strongly, "One man turned green when I mentioned a particularly nasty scenario-"

"That's enough, _tessekur__ederiz_(thanks)." Naima waved her hand at him and turned back in the direction of the party. "We should return. The party will last well into the night, and we should procure something useful before we leave."

-0-

Two hours later, the Assassins found themselves walking quietly through the estate's garden under the stars. Most of their informants had wasted themselves at this point, and frankly both Yusuf and Naima were growing tired. The game of speech and persuasion was a difficult one, and neither could claim to be spectacular at it. Though they had covered each other well, and were not under any duress at the moment.

The garden was mostly empty. Every now and then a drunken guest would stagger past them with mooneyes, but other than that it was quiet. Flowers lined the well-kept path, along with the occasional fruit tree. The older Assassin found it a lovely place, and one she would return to often were she not a wanted criminal.

They walked in silence. As the night wore on, Naima had removed the lower portion of her veil and her night cloak. Her long, inky hair remained covered, to keep up the illusion that she was married (though she told everyone she was Yusuf's consort).

She looked up at Yusuf, whose expression was distant. To keep up the appearance that he was plastered, his robes were disheveled, Naima had spent a good five minutes tussling his hair, and his sandals were missing. All in all though, she had to admit she liked him better rugged.

He caught her gaze and stopped walking. For a moment, they stayed like that; two shadows under the moon, alone in the world but for each other's company. Naima remembered absently as he bent down to kiss her that they were still officially at work.

"…Anyway, the bag of bones will probably die on his own."

Yusuf pulled away, suddenly alert.

"What is it?" Naima whispered, but he hushed her.

The Turk grabbed his partner's hand and silently led her forward, through the brush. Two guards leaned against the garden's stonewall, chatting.

"Who, Pasha?"

The two Assassins tensed at the mention of their mentor.

"_Evet,_" The other man yawned, "I hear he works with the Assassins."

"What nonsense."

"Anan thinks it's true. That's one of the reasons he held this feast."

Yusuf crawled closer, but still kept cautious.

"Oh, I thought I saw some Byzantines earlier. He summoned them?"

"Yes, to deal with Pasha. Far as I see it, the bastard has lived long enough."

The Bursan didn't even realize he'd been lifting his hookblade until Naima eased his arm down.

"Did they tell you anything?" The curious guard continued, but his companion waved his hand in a careless gesture.

"Nothing concerning Pasha's demise, but they are hiring new recruits next week. I suppose they are anticipating some losses," a chuckle.

Yusuf tried to stand, but Naima stopped him.

"You heard them," he hissed, waving a finger at the two guards, "There's a plot to kill Ishak!"

"Yes, but threatening them will earn us nothing," Naima reasoned calmly.

"They know something!" Yusuf groaned in frustration, "Naima, the time to act is now!"

"Yusuf!" She snapped for the fifth time that evening, "Stop thinking with your _hiyar_(dick) and use your head for once! Ishak gave us these disguises so that we could uncover plots _covertly!__" _

The Turk only grunted and broke free of her grip, jumping to his feet. "I promise to only use my blades covertly, then!"

She grabbed onto him, yanking him back. By this time the guards had noticed their presence.

"Is someone there?"

"Please, Yusuf, just think about this! Run it through your head at least once!"

"We're both competent leaders, Naima," Yusuf growled, twisting free yet again, "And just because your poor planning got your _nisanlisi_ (fiancé) killed does not mean _every_arrangement takes five years to prepare!"

That was why they did not like to mix work and play.

Naima stepped back, lips parted. Her face was shocked and swollen, as though he had slapped her. The look of disbelief she gave him made him feel lower than dirt, and he didn't care for it at the moment. But he couldn't deny he'd just low-blowed his partner for being careful.

"_Bok_(shit)." He muttered.

"You there, halt!"

The two guards now had their weapons drawn. Yusuf realized now would be the time to impersonate an intimidated houseguest, but he didn't have it in him.

"Is there a problem, officers?" Naima asked softly. She didn't sound the least bit afraid, but at least she'd tried.

"What are you doing here?" One soldier queried, "The night watchmen locked this garden an hour ago."

"Apologies, _efendim,_" Yusuf murmured, inclining his head in respect, "We did not realize."

"Hey," The other guard wondered, "Does he look familiar?"

"Sir, would you submit to a search?"

Yusuf was about to decline when Naima spoke up.

"You will not find anything on him," She insisted, "My husband is an honest man."

Her tone was so simulated it pained him.

The guard sheathed his sword and approached Yusuf cautiously. Although before he'd even reached the hookblade, a small pouch fell off Yusuf's person.

"What's that?" The other sentry prodded the bag with his toe.

"Oh, just some change," Yusuf bent to pick it up, unfastening it as he did so. The guards watched hungrily as the hand went in, but instead of the shimmering _akci_they expected, it produced a small coconut.

"_Efendim,_ what-"

The two Assassins were running before the explosion even went off.

A tremor shook the estate as the splinter bomb roused the night watch. Naima ripped off her hair covering as they ran, tossing it into the face of their nearest pursuer.

"_Suikastcilar_(Assassins)!"

Yusuf managed to toss a few more bombs as they ran. One full of caltrops (despite his bare feet), another with a brief smoke screen. It did not take them long to escape to the estate's outskirts.

The two elected to rest by a small stable overlooking the residential area of the district. Yusuf leaned against the shack's wooden frame, while Naima sat herself down by the cliff's edge. They waited for a few minutes, panting, and gulping whatever water they'd brought with.

Suddenly, Naima became aware of a thin hissing sound.

"Yusuf," She wondered aloud, directing the Bursan's attention to the small yet lit fuse at his feet, "Is that yours?"

Yusuf took a moment to examine the ticking explosive. He then replied, "…Yes, I believe it is."

Before the Assassin could even open her mouth to respond, she was tumbling backwards. All she knew was that Yusuf was above her, the ground was below her, and pretty soon there would be no Naima in between.

The twenty-six year old squinted her eyes shut and waited for the end.

The end was a pointy and honestly rather uncomfortable pile of hay. Her senses returned fast enough to push her sideways, and Yusuf's head crashed into the space her ribcage had been only nanoseconds earlier.

Soon after landing, Naima sat bolt upright, gasping for breath. Yusuf joined her shortly- both their faces and clothing were black with ash. Naima's hair spiked back, splattered with grey clots. Yusuf's eyes were wide as saucers.

"Alright," he swallowed, "Come to think of it, that last one-"

Naima finished his sentence by grabbing his soot-covered face with her hands and ramming her lips onto his. This only caused his jaw to drop further, allowing her to thrust her tongue into his mouth. She shifted her weight onto him and Yusuf obliged by slowly tilting back into the hay pile. Naima broke the kiss for air when they were horizontal.

"…Wasn't mine…" Yusuf breathed through a hopeful smile.

"Never mention the fiancéagain, ok?"

"Fine, fine. Can I think with my dick yet?"

Naima grinned and carefully removed the miraculously clingy fez from his hair.

"Feel free, _askim._Feel free."

Yusuf returned the gesture by firmly placing his hands on her behind and yanking down.


	4. IV: In Which Yusuf Vomits Twice

Edirne, 1491

There was nothing except the pounding, both of the pulse in his ears and his feet on the dirt. All Yusuf knew was that he was breathing, and if he could breathe, he could run.

Of course, it wasn't always that simple. It was quite a struggle to decide which burned more, his lungs or his shoulder. Both were severely injuring and crying out for a little rest, which the Assassin swiftly denied them. He had not come this far to be thwarted by his own body.

"Stop running!" Yusuf ordered, sacrificing what spare oxygen he had.

"Why?" Came the loud response, "If you want to kill me, _suikastci,_you will have to catch me first!" (Assassin)

A fair deal, Yusuf admitted.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Edirne was a small town, but that didn't stop it from being crowded. In fact, from the look of things, the people outnumbered the houses a hundred to one. It was no wonder the Turk had been forced to share his rented room with four other travelers.

Then again, a small stopover town on the way to Istanbul was probably a nice place to visit, but a sad place to live. Yusuf considered himself lucky there were so many tourists this time of year, and thus an impressive crowd to blend in. However, it was also a slight nuisance, as the seething mass of citizens made it difficult to distinguish his target.

Sahed Lorictre, a mysterious man, had been a resident of Edirne for about three weeks now. He kept mostly to himself, but rumor insisted he was plotting something big. Why else would Sahed establish himself in the middle of nowhere, and suddenly become friendly with anyone who sniffed too close to his large home? The man also had a reputation for being quite wealthy…

Yusuf was more than certain Sahed was his target- the Templar he'd been tracking from Konstantiniyye for nearly two months, the man he was not about to let ago.

Assuming he could find him to begin with.

The young Turk reminded himself to be patient after hitting yet another dead-end. If the city is so small, he couldn't help wondering, how is it a single man is near impossible to find?

Finally, Yusuf decided to take a small break- to relieve his aching feet if not his frustration. The Assassin relaxed on a nearby bench and watched the people move about the district. Their dresses were similar to the garb of Constantine citizens, and if the buildings hadn't been quite so shoddy Yusuf could almost tell himself he was back home.

A soft bird's call lulled the dark-haired man into a sense of tranquility, and he felt himself growing less and less rigid. It felt good to stretch his cramped muscles, and once he popped a few joints he began to consider taking the rest of the evening off. It wasn't like Sahed would disappear by the next morning- eight weeks of espionage had ensured that much.

It was as Yusuf was fantasizing about his bed he noticed the clue. The same group of dark robed individuals had been patrolling his street for the past ten minutes. Although they did not seem to carry any Templar-specific identification, Yusuf was certain they were involved.

Following his instincts, the Turk sat up and dusted himself off. Perhaps today would finally be the day he would put Sahed out of his misery.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

The pain was becoming more distant now, and if Yusuf concentrated he could pretend it wasn't there. The world was empty except for three entities: the Assassin, his fleeing target, and the trampled ground beneath his boots.

He would catch Sahed if it was literally the last thing he did.

If Yusuf had had the willpower, he might have called out as he did before. It may have distracted his target, earning precious seconds. Precious seconds that could have been used to put an end to the infernal chase and the torturous throbbing in Yusuf's legs.

On some basic level, Yusuf understood their little game was coming to a close. And as the two passed under the archway of a dilapidated structure, he steeled himself for its last few moments.

There were not as many guards on the rooftops as he had anticipated. Apparently a town as small as Edirne had no use for such frivolities. However, Yusuf was sure to give the body the respect it deserved as he quietly disposed of the evening's only watchman.

The Turk carefully deposited the man's body inside the nearest roof garden. He would be gone by the time it was discovered.

What mattered was that Yusuf finally had a clear view of Sahed and his minions. Right there, in the center of the street. The Templar could easily be seen strutting about.

Yusuf narrowed his eyes and snuck closer to the roof's edge. An air assassination came tastefully to mind, but Sahed was too far away…

_'__Sabir,__Yusuf,_' (patience) the Assassin reprimanded himself, resisting his hookblade's itch.

After a few more moments waiting, Yusuf's ears detected the faintest murmurs:

"Who is that…?"

"What is he doing on the roof?"

"Shouldn't someone remove him before he hurts himself?"

The Turk tried his hardest to ignore the curious commentators and focused on his target, who was indeed only paces out of range. But Sahed was a smart man, and unfortunately for Yusuf, he looked up.

For a second, the Assassin and the target made eye contact.

And that was exactly when eight weeks of planning went to hell.

Yusuf leapt from the roof, hookblade extended. But as he fell through the air, Sahed's men fired their weapons. Crossbow bolts hurled themselves at the airborne Assassin, but he didn't dare ruining his aim to twist out of the way.

A blinding flash of pain informed Yusuf that one of the projectiles had pierced his shoulder, causing his armed hand to waver. That, combined with the fact that he was too far away to successfully perform the assassination resulted in his tumbling to the ground, landing on his stomach at Sahed's feet.

Oxygen disappeared from the Turk's lungs and he had some difficulty climbing to his feet. By the time he'd recovered, the Templar was long gone. All that remained was the gold trim of his cape as it rounded the corner.

Yusuf let out a curse as well as a thick smoke bomb. He left the guards choking on each other's coughs and sprinted after Sahed as fast as was humanly possible.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

It took a few moments, but gradually Yusuf realized that they were indoors now. Sahed fled before him, barreling down a long, stone hallway. Yusuf was only meters behind.

One corridor ended and the next began, though its conclusion was also in sight. The building appeared to be some form of old dungeon, which explained the maze-like pathways and iron doors, many of which Sahed had tried to use to block Yusuf's progress. But now the labyrinth was coming to its end, and the Templar would be at his mercy at last.

It did not particularly surprise Yusuf to see Sahed sealing the barred prison-door behind him when he rounded the corner, but it did surprise him to see the other man suddenly halt, doubling up with his hands on his thighs.

Yusuf approached the trapped Templar, falling to his knees before the door. He took a moment to look up and abruptly realized what had to be the most absurd escape in history:

Sahed had locked himself in a prison cell.

"Come out, Templar!" Yusuf commanded hoarsely, struggling for breath.

Sahed panted and shook his head, "Why? We cannot keep running forever, _aptal_." (idiot)

"Exactly. The point is for me to catch and kill you."

The Templar shook his head again and threw his back against the mossy wall. He tilted his jaw upwards, drawing in breath after breath, "I'm sorry, Assassin. But I don't want to die today."

"Coward!" Yusuf spat, angrily climbing to his feet. He jammed his hookblade between the bars, but to his chagrin it would not extend to the Templar's neck. He drew his sword, but the thick length of steel could not penetrate the cell. Finally he emptied his pockets of all things lethal- throwing knives, bombs, packets of gunpowder.

Yusuf groaned and slapped his face. None of his equipment would do him any good with his throwing arm so badly mangled. Though the wound no longer hurt, his entire left side was numb. Ordinarily Yusuf would toss a bomb anyway, but he didn't want to bring the whole building down with a clumsy throw.

"Face it, Assassin," The Templar boasted as he straightened, "I have bested you."

"Let's not speak too soon," Yusuf muttered, more to himself than to Sahed, "There has to be something nearby I could kill you with."

The Turk began to pace. After emptying his sash of everything useful (not much, as firearms were not exactly in ready supply in Edirne), he searched the room for anything he could use to extend the reach of his short blade. He came very close once, by attaching a long wooden pole to the weapon- but when he'd jutted it into the cell, Sahed had calmly stepped aside disassembled the little contraption. Yusuf's knife still sat between the bars.

"_Simdi__gel_," (come now) Sahed told him, "We're both exhausted."

Yusuf glared at the man, "And the moment I rest my eyes, you thrust my own blade down my throat. Honestly, you Templars get less charming with each passing day."

Sahed said nothing. Eventually, Yusuf did sit down, but only because he had lost the feeling in his legs. His head was the next casualty- the room began to dip and spin. Occasionally, dark spots cropped up, dancing across Yusuf's eyeballs. But he always chased them away. He would not sleep. He _would__not__sleep._

Time passed slowly in that little dungeon. Sahed grappled with boredom, and Yusuf with the consequences of his injuries. An hour or so in, the Assassin began to gasp for breath.

"Is something wrong?" Sahed found himself wondering.

Yusuf's head wobbled on his neck, "Oh, nothing _efendim__… _I am just suddenly overcome with..."

The sentence ended in a terribly wet retching noise.

Sahed wrinkled his nose in disgust and turned to face the wall.

And so time carried on even further. Yusuf would often knock on the cell's bars, letting the Templar know he was still well aware of his surroundings.

"You cannot hide in there forever, _korkak._" (coward)

Eventually evening turned to night. Night progressed to twilight. Sahed, convinced he was safe in his little prison, curled into a ball and elected to sleep. Yusuf tried to take advantage of his enemy's weakness, but he found his own too crippling. His mind was fuzzy, and any movement was met with extreme nausea.

With the Templar snoring away peacefully, Yusuf had to argue with his body about why sleep was not an option. However it came to the point where the twenty-four-year-old's brain no longer stood a chance. In his last conscious thought, Yusuf scraped some resin from his pouch and used it to seal the cell's door, guaranteeing that the Templar's key would not work.

Then he sighed and allowed a restless slumber to steal him.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Yusuf was jolted awake by a loud scraping noise. He twisted in his seat (unaware that he had been leaning against the cell door) to see Sahed pushing the iron barrier with all his might.

"Try it, Templar!" Yusuf goaded, fully alert with his hookblade drawn.

Sahed paused, taking a moment to look over the younger man, "You do not look well, Assassin. If you let me out, I could take you to a doctor."

Yusuf snorted, "Please. I am injured, not stupid."

"If you do nothing to treat that wound, there will soon be little difference."

The Turk had no reply. A glance at his shoulder revealed that the wound was in much worse shape than it had been earlier, though he had managed to remove the bloody bolt. A few hours spent sleeping in the dirt did not do much to encourage its restoration, either.

The Templar began to speak, though hesitantly. He asked:

"Assassin, how old are you?"

Yusuf frowned, but saw little harm in answering, "I am twenty-four. You?"

"Thirty-two."

The conversation ended there, but the thoughts it ignited did not.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"Assassin?"

It had been several hours at this point. Sahed spent the time removing the Assassin's resin implants. Honestly it had surprised him that his would-be killer hadn't noticed.

"…Assassin?"

There was no reply.

Sahed climbed to his feet and cautiously made his way to the door. He inserted his key in the lock and slowly pushed the cell open. The Assassin's body, which had been resting against it, collapsed on its side.

The Templar stood conflicted. He could very easily leave the stubborn Assassin to die on his own, but…

He was the very picture of agony. The Assassin's face was pinched and pale, yet it shown with sweat. Dried blood stained the majority of his right side, and the front of his robes was splattered with old vomit. What a terrible way for such a young man to die…

But this was a man who'd already tried to kill him several times. Surely this was justice- how many others had this child ended before him? What would the Order say if they'd known he'd pitied an Assassin?

Certain now of his decision, Sahed turned on his heel and calmly left the room, allowing the shivering Assassin his space.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Yusuf awoke to a headache. It was not the usual, heavy-weighted feeling. It was more like a very small person had managed to smuggle a very large weapon inside his skull and was bashing his brains about.

Also when Yusuf woke, he was not on a bed. He was quite disappointed to find himself on a _hekim_'s wooden table, with the healer himself only inches from his face.

"Sh," the doctor eased him down gently when Yusuf attempted to rise. "Do not move, _efendim._You have just had a very close brush with infection."

The Turk had a reply to that, but his stomach got first say. As though telepathic, the _hekim_suddenly procured a bucket, and Yusuf buried his head in it.

Yusuf couldn't help but hope Edirne had some fine restaurants, because after this assignment he was going to be quite hungry.

The assignment… How had it ended? Yusuf strained his mind, but he could remember nothing. Had he killed Sahed? He seemed to recall something strange about chasing a Templar into a jail cell, but everything after that evaporated.

"_Beni__bagislayin,_" (excuse me) Yusuf cleared his throat, "But…How did I get here?"

"You were carried here by Sahed Lorictre himself," The doctor answered, brows raised, "I'll admit, I thought for a while I was dreaming. But it's true- in the dead of night, he brought you here and demanded your treatment."

Yusuf could find no words.

"He also asked me to relay this message: You win."


	5. V: In Which Men Almost Fall FromTerraces

Constantinople, 1492

"Did we lose them?"

Silence, before a male voice answered:

"…_Evet,_I think so." (yes)

At this, the elder of the two Assassins allowed himself to collapse with exhaustion, sliding down to the dirty floor with his back against the wall.

Yusuf eyed his friend with amusement as he procured the parchment from his sash.

"All that trouble," The tired one heaved, "For a piece of paper?"

"Not just any piece of paper, Baishan," Yusuf murmured, rolling out the scroll in order to more easily read it, "A notice."

The fallen Assassin twitched as though intrigued, but he made no move to stand. After a few moments, Baishan asked:

"What does it say?"

"…To whom it may concern, the following proclamation has been issued, blah blah," The Turk skimmed, rolling his eyes. He stayed quiet for a second or two, until he hit what appeared to be the note's purpose: "A bounty of one thousand _akci_has been placed upon the head of Yusuf Tazim, notorious criminal mastermind and blasphemer." (coins)

Baishan's gaze lit up, then he grinned coyly, "'Blasphemer', Yusuf?"

The Turk shrugged, but his expression darkened when he reached the parchment's end. "…To be delivered, dead or alive, unto the authority of Steward Mafkhid Ishi." Yusuf then proceeded to rip the document into as many pieces as possible.

"Do you know the man?" Baishan wondered.

Yusuf nodded, smiling wryly, "Well…I suppose you could say that."

Baishan leaned onto his knees, inhaling as he prepared to pull himself up, "I don't want to know. Let's just get back home, shall we?"

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

A few more peaceful days passed before Yusuf had to think about the price on his head. At the time, he had been helping Baishan carry some gunpowder to the newly recovered Imperial Assassin Den.

The event began innocently enough. As they walked, Baishan- an Assassin who worked in message delivery and acceptance- informed him of the latest news.

"Have you heard of the mess in _Italya_?" The older man asked, tossing the large barrel in his arms to better his grip.

"Mess?" Yusuf repeated.

"_Evet._Apparently _Venedik_has gone through three rulers in the past decade!" (Venice)

The Turk couldn't help pondering, "What happened to them?"

Baishan shook his head, "They were all murdered. Ishak believes their killer may be one of our brothers, though he does not respond to our calls."

"Our brother…" Yusuf muttered. He looked up at his friend, "What's his name?"

Baishan pursed his lips, "…I cannot quite remember, though I've seen it many times. Ezio… Ezio Auditore di…some other nonsense."

"Italian," Yusuf grinned, "Truly the language of tongue-tied fools."

"You!" The Assassins halted before the group of men that had suddenly blocked their path. The one who had called them out wore a headscarf and average tunic, but wielded an impressive blade.

"Are you the one they call 'Yusuf Tazim'?"

Yusuf scanned his surroundings. The plaza was mostly empty of people, as it was late in the evening. The road was an open escape, if not for the human barricade of five armed men. However they did not appear Byzantine, and they did not possess Ottoman armor...

"I'm not much good in a fight, Yusuf," Baishan relayed from the corner of his mouth, "Let's try to end this peacefully?"

"Take the powder and go, I'll take care of these." Yusuf ordered him. Baishan sighed, but was prepared to do as he was directed.

"Hey, _sert__adam_! I am talking to you!" (tough guy)

The Turk placed his burden on the ground and stepped forward, popping the joints in his fingers loudly as he did so.

"Alright," Yusuf announced, "We can do this the easy way, or the hard way."

"If we bring you in, we get one thousand coins," One of the thugs pointed out, "_each_."

"That's true," Yusuf admitted, "But surely there are better things in this world than _akci_…"

"My wife is starving," Another of the citizens growled, "Do you have a better way of making quick money?"

"Well, no," The Assassin answered, "But do you really think yourself a killer?"

"We don't have to kill you, we just need to break a limb or two to stop you from getting away. Besides, Mafkhid wants you alive."

"He does?" Yusuf raised his eyebrows, "Goodness, he must be more furious than I thought."

"Enough talk! Grab him!"

Baishan ran for the opening as soon as Yusuf allowed him one. The younger Assassin easily distracted his foes until his partner could escape with their cargo, then began to focus on the matter at hand.

Yusuf was well aware that these people were innocent. However, when the knife came within a hair of his neck, it was difficult not to retaliate with a hookblade to the sternum.

A sword violated Yusuf's personal space and paid the price- the Assassin grabbed its hilt in one hand and punched its handler's face with the other. The man cried out in pain, dropping his weapon straight into Yusuf's grasp.

After a mace nearly shattered his left arm, Yusuf decided he'd had enough. He tore a smoke-screen bomb from his belt and hurled it to the ground, where it enveloped the struggle swiftly. The Turk used the black fog to disappear, his hood covering his nose and mouth.

He couldn't relax until he was back home in Galata, where he stayed awake fingering an incense pipe. He had come dangerously close to breaking the Creed that night.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The following day, Yusuf found himself sitting at a booth beside his fellow Naima, sipping a lukewarm beer.

"It's only getting worse," The Turk muttered into his drink, "Mafkhid's doubled the price now, and posters are everywhere…"

"_Alahim,_Yusuf, what did you do to make the man so angry?" (God) Naima asked, resting her cheek on her hand as she gave Yusuf a half-concerned, half-amused stare.

Yusuf shrugged, "Nothing too terrible."

"Really."

"Alright, so maybe his prized gem disappeared while he was speaking," Yusuf sighed, exasperated. "And maybe the theft resulted in his clothing falling off during the speech. But how was the thief supposed to know that the old miser would use his most precious possession as belt to stop people from stealing it?"

Naima raised an eyebrow, "And? Surely that's not all."

Yusuf scowled at her, "Fine. Maybe the thief was there when Mafkhid's wrinkled _horoz_presented itself. And maybe he thought it was hysterical." (cock)

"And the blasphemy?"

"The thief may or may not have said some unkind things about Mafkhid's parentage to his face."

Satisfied, the female Assassin grinned, "Did the thief at least make off with the jewel?"

Yusuf smirked back, lowering his voice dangerously, "_Firin__sisman__bir__adam__gibi._Believe it." (like a fat man at a bakery)

"Excuse me, kind lady, but may we have a word with your companion?"

Both Assassins turned to stare at the group of newcomers. They were casually dressed, but bearing arms.

"Oh not again," Yusuf moaned, collapsing onto the table. "Didn't I beat you guys up enough this morning?"

"_Komutanim_Tazim," (sir) the leader, a man sporting a bruised eye and a grimace, replied irritably, "The reward for your breathing carcass is two thousand _akci._A few bruises will not stop me from getting my money."

"How about a few severed limbs?" The table threatened.

"Please, _efendim,_" (sir) Naima stood, giving the stranger an apologetic look, "Yusuf has had a very rough day. You are not the first group that's tried to bring him to justice this morning."

"I do not see how this concerns you, miss," The man shrugged off her gaze, "Just hand us Tazim and you may leave."

Naima sighed, "I was afraid you'd say that…"

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"It's insane!" Yusuf exclaimed, setting the soaked cloth back on the floor. The ice had helped relieve the pain of his bruised lip, but the swelling was terrible. "I can't walk two steps without someone trying to arrest me!"

"Maybe you should try wearing your hood," Naima suggested, wincing as she lathered cream over her bleeding knuckles, "I think it's your hair that draws the most attention. You know, with it being so bushy and noticeable."

"It's hair," Yusuf reasoned coldly, "It's supposed to do that."

"Either way, I don't see how covering your head is a bad idea."

The two Assassins lapsed into silence, licking their wounds indignantly. In the end, they'd been forced to retreat to Galata, where the hideout remained vacant. Even Ishak had found some form of work, investigating "lost Assassins" in Venice or some other rubbish.

Only Baishan, Naima, and Adin seemed to have time to look out for Yusuf. And after a week, their company was growing stale.

"Naima," Yusuf began, laying back against the lounge's many, many cushions, "I think it's time we did something about my notoriety."

"I can't believe those exact words actually came out of your mouth-!"

"I will admit," Yusuf interrupted the amused woman, "The attention has been nice. But my lips are truly throbbing something awful right now, and if my infamy is the cause I would like it removed."

"Fair enough."

"I think it's time I paid Mafkhid another visit."

"Perhaps," Naima agreed, crawling a bit closer to the fuming Assassin, "But why don't we wait until tomorrow, hm?"

"Good point," Yusuf nodded, and she smiled, "Hopefully by then my lips will not resemble those of a little girl."

Naima chuckled and kissed him soundly.

"Mm, girly, but still fine."

"Go away."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Sunup to sundown. Twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. That was how often the sound of a young man's laughter burned in Mafkhid's ears. For too long, his associates had ridiculed the old Steward. But whenever said associates stood accused, they would reason that they would never speak ill of the powerful politician, nor would they ever dream of scorning his ways.

And yet, when the most embarrassing moment of Mafkhid's entire life came to pass before his entire staff of advisors, there had been laughter. The laughter had started with a young man, who it took the wealthy politician a few days to locate. But it had spread, from that man to his audience, and eventually from his audience to his friends. Soon everyone was chortling at the joke of the old man who still thought himself important.

But Mafkhid was important. He reminded himself of this while he watched another day end on his estate's westward terrace. Mafkhid was important enough to command the fate of this easy-going youngster, and soon the rest of Konstantiniyye would know that too.

Yusuf Tazim. The name just filled him with disgust. Soon, very soon, Mafkhid would meet this "Yusuf Tazim". He'd have his guards drag him in, probably kicking and screaming like the child Tazim is. Then, when they were all alone, Mafkhid would teach the boy the very meaning of the word 'humiliation'. And he might invite his advisors along as well…Just to make them watch what happens to people who laugh.

Just as the wealthy man's fantasies were nearing their peak, the cough of a clearing throat sounded behind him. Mafkhid turned to find a well-armed stranger leaning in his doorway wearing an unhappy expression. With horror, the politician realized he was trapped- behind him, a fifty-foot drop to street level. Before him, a tall man with dark hair and a sharp knife.

"Mafkhid Ishi," He said quietly, "You have made my life very inhospitable these past few days."

"Who are you?" Mafkhid snarled, backing up against the railing, "What do you want?"

The man looked quite surprised, "You mean, you don't recognize the face that all of _Turkiye_is looking for?" (Turkey)

Mafkhid stayed silent, studying his assailant's clothes and features. Assassin? He'd heard they'd survived Constantine's crusade, but he'd never done anything to anger them, had he?

"The face worth _two__thousand,__five__hundred__akci?__" _

His jaw dropped, and his eyes widened. It couldn't be…

"Are you…You are Yusuf Tazim!"

Yusuf folded his arms in annoyance, "Yes. I'm turning myself in. Where's my money?"

"You!" Mafkhid's fear quickly morphed back into the rage he'd felt earlier while he'd been just considering the young man's existence. He thrust a shaking finger at the Turk's chest, "You have caused me much misery!"

"Well, then I'd say we're equal," Yusuf responded, lids lowered, "Take a good look at my lip, you bastard. You've killed it."

Mafkhid ignored him, fury causing his entire hand to quiver, "You've made me the laughingstock of Constantinople! You will suffer dearly for your-"

"I don't have time for this."

Before the politician could even move, Yusuf had his hands around his neck. Mafkhid shrieked as the Assassin lifted him up over the railing's edge. However he did not let go.

"_Deli__misin__nesin?__" _(are you insane) Mafkhid protested, "What are you doing?"

"_Arkadashim,_" (friend) Yusuf yelled over the older man's shouts, "I will gladly return you to your terrace if you remove the bounty on my head."

"No!" Mafkhid insisted, "I cannot let your heinous crime go without punishment!"

Yusuf's grip slackened, and Mafkhid screamed. Before he could fall, however, the Assassin reestablished his presence.

"It's a long way down, Mafkhid," Yusuf drawled, "Are you sure you won't reconsider?"

There was silence, aside from the old man's occasional whimpering. Finally, he replied:

"Fine, fine! As you wish! Just put me down!"

Yusuf did so, returning the man's sandals to the patterned floor of his veranda. Mafkhid doubled up, wheezing.

"Also," Yusuf added, pulling something from his pocket, "I'd like to return this to you."

The politician raised his eyes to find his precious emerald dangling between the Assassin's fingers. Immediately, he snatched it.

"As a bonus in good faith that you will live up to your promise," Tazim warned.

"I will, _efendim,_don't worry…" Mafkhid muttered beneath his breath. With the emerald in his possession, and no one to have witnessed the earlier events, he could easily restore his honor. After all, how hard could it be to track down one rascal and beat him until he returned what he'd stolen?

And Mafkhid could still stay clean in the Assassins eyes. It was a good deal.

"I couldn't get a good price while your family name was engraved on the back anyway."


	6. VI: In Which Friends Are Lost And Found

Constantinople, 1493

Yusuf had to admit; Ishak was very good at what he did. The old man could blend perfectly in any environment, including one as wide open as a parkway veranda.

When the twenty-six year old approached, it seemed to him that his Mentor and another man were engaged in a game of chess. The wise Assassin frowned down at the board, stroking his beard; his opponent appeared far less relaxed.

The Turk cleared his throat, "You sent for me, master?"

Ishak leaned back from the game, turning his head to acknowledge his apprentice's arrival.

"Indeed. I would like you to meet an associate of mine," The Master Assassin extended his hand to the anxious man across from him, "Talit ibn Mayil."

Yusuf bowed respectfully, "An honor, _efendim._ I am Yusuf Tazim."

"Yes," Talit responded, kneading his fingers on the chessboard, "So I have heard."

"Talit has been a dedicated benefactor of the Ottoman Assassins for many years now," Ishak explained lowly, "And he has recently come forward with a request."

With the Mentor's permission, the noble began:

"I am afraid I must beg for your help, friends," He said, "As you know, I believe fully in your cause and greatly support your efforts. But lately I have been under much pressure from certain… Undesirable individuals."

Yusuf cocked an eyebrow, and his gaze slid to his Master.

"The Byzantines are unhappy with our friend's loyalties," Ishak elaborated, "And so they have been attempting to persuade him that we are dangerous criminals."

"I have managed to elude them for the past few years," Talit added, "But they have switched tactics."

Talit hesitated, his hands tapping nervously on the wood table. After a bit more encouragement from Ishak, he informed Yusuf:

"My son is missing," The nobleman said, "He is nine years old. I have been told the Assassins kidnapped him, but I know better."

"Yusuf," Ishak reached out for his apprentice's sleeve, catching his attention. The Turk looked down into his Mentor's eyes, and there he found much depth and trust. "We have an idea of where Talit's son is being held. You are to retrieve him safely. Can you do that?"

Yusuf held Ishak's stare. It was as though the old man could see straight into him; squeeze the life from any doubt. It was not a question he posed, but a message of courage- he could do that.

"_Bir__sorun__degil,_" (not a problem) Yusuf answered quietly. Then, to Talit he promised, "I will find your child and return him to you."

Talit sighed in relief, collapsing against his chair.

"Thank you, Yusuf. Thank you."

'_Don__'__t__thank__me__too__soon__'__,_ was the bitter thought circling Yusuf's mind as he left the terrace.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

As the Bursan's deft fingers screwed the cap onto the last explosive, his mind reviewed its facts. The child, a young boy named Mesi, had been missing for one week. He was a brunette, grey-eyed, and would come up to about Yusuf's elbow height wise. The Byzantines had recently moved him outside the city to make Talit more desperate- the new location was a rundown farmhouse just outside. The area was very well guarded.

So caught up in his work was he that he failed to notice the pair of approaching footsteps. Yusuf refused to allow himself to become distracted.

"Yusuf?"

He had work to do.

It wasn't until a hand tugged at his shoulder that he finally averted his eyes. At his annoyed glare, the other Assassin backed off.

"_Alahim,_Yusuf, what's got into you?" (God) Zavi murmured, eyes wide. The orphan Yusuf had known on the streets had grown strong- now twenty years old, Zavi had become a promising Assassin.

"Nothing," Yusuf replied, shrugging, "I am only…preoccupied."

"With a mission that requires fifteen cherry bombs, I see."

"Take your wisecracks somewhere they will be appreciated." The Bursan advised, locking up the crafting board.

"Yusuf," Zavi persisted, following the elder Assassin as he marched down the den's staircase, "We are only worried about you. You've immersed yourself so completely with this assignment…is something wrong-?"

Yusuf halted.

"We?" He repeated, brows arched.

Zavi winced and shifted his weight, "No one. Just me."

A few seconds passed before the scarf-swaddled Assassin groaned out, "Fine. Naima and I- satisfied?"

"I knew there was a woman involved," The Turk muttered to himself, finishing his trek down the stairs.

"Is it true you plan to go all by yourself?" Zavi was undeterred, "To retrieve the boy, I mean."

"_Evet,_" Yusuf answered irritably, "Is that a problem? Would you like to consult my mother?"

Zavi was silent. Yusuf mentally kicked himself- now he'd hurt someone.

"Look," The Assassin sighed, folding his arms, "I appreciate your concern, Zavi. You are my friend. But I am a grown man now, and I can make my own decisions."

The youth gave Yusuf one last look before scurrying off with a hurried, 'of course, mentor'. Yusuf blamed whatever guilty feelings prodded him that night on Zavi's childish behavior.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"Assa-!"

Yusuf uttered a curse as he slit the Templar's throat, ending his shout of alarm. It was the heat- that's what was causing him to act so sloppily.

As he laid the body gently on the ground, the twenty-six-year-old couldn't help noticing that was the second time he'd nearly been caught. Yusuf mopped his forehead with his sleeve, pressing onward towards the shack's entrance. Perhaps if it weren't so damn _hot_outside…

The door opened with a loud creak, which drew the attention of several enemies within.

"Who's there?"

Yusuf dove back outside, pressing his back against the wall. He waited for the footsteps to draw near. When they halted, he pounced; leaping around the corner and burying his hookblade in the man's chest, sinking with him to the ground. Yusuf dragged the body outside and proceeded onward.

There was another guard in the house's den area, but the Bursan managed to quietly sneak past him, up the stairway. Yusuf took great care which of the wooden boards he stepped on, as many looked unstable and many more looked loud.

Finally, he arrived at the top floor, which housed only one room. A door (only slightly ajar but open enough for an Assassin to peek through) connected the stairway to the bedroom. Yusuf poked his nose into the room and scanned it.

Sitting still as a statue on the lumpy bed was a small boy, brown haired and sniveling. A ratty-looking cloth was wrapped around his head, blocking his eyes. His hands were unbound, yet his wrists were red and crusty.

There were two men with the child, and both were armed. One was seated at the room's tiny table, innocently shuffling a deck of cards. The other was pacing, hands knotted behind his back. Neither suspected the Assassin behind the doorframe.

Yusuf sprang into action: he entered the room, pulling two throwing knives from his sash. The first buried itself into the skull of the card dealer, but the second missed its target.

The Templar drew his sword, "Assassin-!"

A moment later he fell to the ground with Yusuf's weight on top of him, an Ottoman hookblade in his throat.

"Hello?" The child's voice grabbed Yusuf's attention as he stood, wiping his blade on his robe, "Is-is someone there?"

Slowly, the Turk made his way to the bed. At his approach, the boy grew afraid, squirming in his seat; but he dared not move.

"Shh," Yusuf murmured, placing his hands at the base of the brunette's neck, fingers searching for cloth ties. "It's alright, it's alright."

Finally, the blindfold fell. At first, the young one was stunned, grey eyes blinking rapidly. But soon his vision returned, and he stared at Yusuf with an expression of terror and respect.

Yusuf grimaced- the boy had been through a lot, that much was certain. His forehead was bruised and tender, his cheeks stained with dried blood. Soft lips were cracked and split, and an eye socket pulsed with a purple welt.

But the Turk smiled warmly and said, "Mesi?"

The child did not respond.

"Mesi, my name is Yusuf. I am here to take you home," he added, "to your father."

Again, no reply. Yusuf sighed; it was not a wonder the boy was shocked. The poor thing looked terribly lost, confused, and weak.

And yet the arms that threw themselves around his neck seemed unusually forceful, and Yusuf nearly fell back from the embrace's momentum.

"Thank you," Mesi whimpered.

The Bursan picked the nine-year-old up and carried him down the stairs, an action that caused much creaking and groaning. The house's bottom floors were cleared, but Yusuf had barely taken four steps into Constantinople's heat when he was ordered to halt.

"Put the boy down, Assassin!" The approaching patrolman shouted, drawing his weapon. Yusuf did not comply, which only attracted more attention.

"Mesi, we're going to play a game," He whispered, gently setting the boy down.

"Return him to us and your death will be quick!"

"When I give you the signal, you're going to fall to the ground," Yusuf continued, "And curl into a ball like a little bug, ok?"

Mesi nodded.

Yusuf grinned and turned to face his five opponents.

"Come and take him."

They were faster than he expected, and the heat didn't make the fight any easier. Swords flashed through the air, shimmering glints in the blinding sunlight. Luckily, Yusuf had the advantage of light armor, and was easily able to counter two of his enemies as they thrust themselves at him.

Yusuf leapt at the third with his own length of steel. The Byzantine caught it with a parry, but Yusuf jammed his hookblade into the man's heart, bypassing the sword lock.

However, while the Turk had been preoccupied, his enemy managed to land a blow. The blade only narrowly missed Yusuf's neck, instead slashing the area above his hip diagonally.

Blood spurted from the gash, and the pain staggered him. Suddenly, arms grabbed his neck, yanking him back. Yusuf struggled against his captor, hookblade already deployed- but the Templar dug his fingers deep into Yusuf's wound, flooding him with white-hot agony.

"Yusuf!"

He was certain Mesi's desperate cry would be the last thing he would ever hear.

But a moment later the grip on his throat slackened, and the pain receded. Both Byzantines slid to the ground, throwing knives wedged in their backs. Yusuf fell to his knees, fighting off the urge to vomit at the intense agony in his side.

"Yusuf," A gloved hand clasped his shoulder, and Yusuf turned to see a familiarly cloaked face.

"Zavi," He breathed as the twenty year old helped him up. It took Yusuf a moment to remember to be annoyed, "Why did you follow me?"

"I didn't," The young man shrugged, beckoning Mesi forward. The boy seemed afraid at first, but Yusuf nodded and he came. Zavi gathered him into his arms, then to Yusuf said:

"Help is up ahead. There is a wagon ready to depart for Constantinople."

The two Assassins made their way from the farmhouse quickly. As they ran, Yusuf tended to his wound, patching it as best he could- but he knew that so long as he was moving it would not hold. And the blasted heat would only make everything worse…

Distant yells drew the Bursan's attention, and he did a brief scan over his shoulder.

"Damn," Yusuf swore, "It seems our friends do not want us to leave too swiftly, _arkadashim.__" _

"I know, I know," Zavi huffed, adjusting Mesi's weight, "Just a little farther."

The young Assassin was true to his word- just over the next hill a carriage sat, with a hooded figure beside its horses. Upon Yusuf and Zavi's appearance, the Assassin ran forward armed with a crossbow.

"Is he hurt?" Naima approached Zavi, holding her arms out for Mesi's shaking form.

Zavi swallowed, "No, I don't think so- but Yusuf needs some help."

"I am fine," Yusuf insisted, "We need to leave; the Byzantines were right behind us."

"_Anliyorum_," (understood) The female grunted, carrying the child back to the wagon. Zavi climbed the ladder to the driver's bench, while Yusuf and Naima clambered into the wagon's back.

"Stop!"

The patrol had caught up with them- two pikemen, a swordsman, and…something Yusuf couldn't quite make out, neither sword nor axe.

Horses' shrill screams bit the air as Zavi whipped the wagon's team. Within seconds, the carriage was off- but the Templars were nothing if not tenacious. The one with the indiscernible weapon soon appeared behind them on a horse, just barely keeping pace.

"Persistent bastard," Naima muttered, squinting at the growing speck in the dust. "Do you have any throwing knives, Yusuf? I'm out."

A crack of thunder startled the Assassins.

"What was that?" Mesi asked anxiously.

"It sounded like a bomb…" Yusuf mused.

"Oh god-"

The group followed Naima's gaze to find that the Templar was much closer than they'd assumed- and his long weapon was pointed directly at the wagon.

Yusuf narrowed his eyes, trying to find the pole's details, "What is he-"

There was another crack, and the next thing Yusuf knew he was bouncing back against the wagon's wood floor. The horses screeched again, sprinting even faster.

Yusuf blinked hard- he did not seem hurt, but he could smell blood and feel it fresh and warm against his stomach.

"Naima," The Bursan gasped as he sat up, but he found his companion unresponsive. The Assassin was sprawled nearly on top of him; her arms lay out in front of her.

"Naima," Yusuf repeated, and this time she groaned.

Mesi drew near, and the two of them turned her over to reveal a pulsing hole in her chest. Blood was quickly staining her robes, and it was already beginning to pool on the wagon's boards.

"Yusuf-" She coughed as his eyes grew wide.

"Shh," His mind was going blank as he gathered her into his arms, "You're okay."

There was a silence but for the pounding of hooves on dirt. Yusuf held Naima against him, her head sitting him his lap.

"Yusuf, what happened?" Mesi whispered, sitting beside the wounded Assassin.

As he watched his friend fight for her last breath, the truth of his next few words hit him with full force:

"I don't know."


	7. VII: In Which Yusuf Cusses Out A Kitten

Constantinople, 1494

The gravel crunched beneath his shoes as Yusuf made his way towards the blacksmith's shop. The errand was simple one- refreshing the Galata Den's supply of throwing knives- but it was a nice shake up from the usual routine. Besides, Yusuf's throat had been scratchy that morning and his breathing somewhat rough. He didn't feel inclined to push himself today.

Upon his arrival, the merchant's face lit up.

"Ah, Yusuf!" He smiled brightly, "Back again? And with the same amount of coin, I hope?"

Yusuf chuckled and produced a small red pouch from his belt, "I'm here on Assassin business, my friend."

The man hummed in understanding and lifted a finger in Yusuf's direction, indicating brief absence. The Turk watched as his friend disappeared into the stall's closet before returning with a large cloth bundle splayed across his arms.

He laid the package out on the counter, and the two examined its contents.

"Five hundred," The blacksmith told Yusuf quietly, "Just as Ishak and I agreed on."

Yusuf nodded firmly and dropped the pouch onto the wood table. It landed with a dull jingle.

"Another Assassin will come by tomorrow with double this amount. Thank you, _arkadashim._"

The elder man bowed his head, and their transaction was complete.

The Bursan took the heavy load in his arms and began to walk the short distance home. But he had only taken a few steps when a severe pain in his stomach forced him to halt.

Ordinarily Yusuf would have ignored it and struggled onward, but he found himself nearly floored by the pulsing sensation in his middle. He could hardly stand, much less walk; in fact, if he didn't sit right away nausea threatened to make a nasty appearance.

Yusuf set the knives down next to a bench before slipping onto the cool stone. Relief uncoiled his muscles and Yusuf tipped his head back against the wall behind him, sighing. He hadn't recalled feeling this tired an hour ago…

Perhaps if he just rested his eyes a moment, he'd have the strength to lug that sack of knives all the way to the Galata armory…

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

When the Turk awoke, it was to dim voices:

"Does he look…familiar, to you?"

"Not especially, why?"

"That hood looks like an Assassin type."

"But he's not wearing it up. Assassins never remove their hoods when on a mission."

"He's sleeping, Dominico. Does he _look _like he's on a mission?"

Yusuf's lids fluttered open, but his head felt heavier than ever. Apparently a migraine had taken root while he'd been turned the other way, and refused to be deracinated.

When his vision cleared, he found two Byzantine guards peering at him curiously. One looked as though he were about to prod Yusuf with a stick. Slowly, the Turk realized he was still sitting on the bench, only by now night had fallen.

"Excuse us, _effendim-_" The politer of the Templars began.

Yusuf was about to interrupt him when his throat produced a long, wet cough. The Assassin only barely managed to contain it with the crook of his elbow, but the slimy feeling at the base of his tongue remained.

"Ah, let's leave him," The other guard remarked disdainfully, "He is but a poor rascal whose wild nights are catching up to him."

His partner gave Yusuf one last suspicious glance before rising to his feet and lumbering off. The Bursan let out a few more rattled coughs before straightening in his seat and popping a few sore joints.

This disturbed the kitten sleeping in his lap.

Yusuf looked down, alarmed by the tuft of white fur that was now wobbling on his left thigh. The little cat looked up at him with sad golden eyes, as though imploring him not to leave.

"Go on, little one," He waved a hand at it, encouraging the kitten to shoo. Eventually the white cat leapt to the ground and scurried off, but not without another grief-filled glare.

The Assassin let loose a low curse when the bag of knives was nowhere to be found.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Though it was late, Galata Den was still a busy workplace. However it was a calm business, more like the gentle trickling of a stream than the buzzing of an open market.

When Yusuf arrived, he was greeted by Zavi- whose welcome consisted of tiredly raising his eyes from the map he was studying to give Yusuf a small nod. Kesafa, his partner, was slightly more animate.

"_Merhaba,_Yusuf," (hello) The female lazily announced.

The Bursan responded with a second round of moist hacking into his sleeve.

"That doesn't sound good," Another of his brothers commented as Yusuf strode past.

"Yusuf," Zavi yawned, "Did you fetch the throwing knives? Kesafa and I-"

"No," Yusuf cut in tersely.

When the other two Assassins exchanged raised eyebrows, Yusuf groaned inwardly. He couldn't explain why he was so tired and snappish. And somehow Zavi always took the beating from him…

"I'm going to sleep," The Turk announced gruffly, spitting a large glob of something truly awful into his elbow.

"Would you like anything for that cough, _ogretmen?__" _(mentor) Kesafa's voice trailed after him as he left the room.

"I'll be fine." He responded, stumbling to his room. Sleep could not come soon enough.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Yusuf was not aware of the time when he finally sat up in his cot, but he knew it was long past daybreak. He didn't make a habit of sleeping in, so he would have to chalk this one up to the cold that seemed to have firmly grasped his head.

And what a cold it was. When the Turk tried to sit up, the room spun. Nausea was always present, and his throat hurt something terrible, as though he had swallowed flaming knives. Yusuf shuddered, picturing their jagged edges carving searing lines in his neck that reopened with every ragged breath.

The Turk climbed out of his cot and slowly worked on his robes. He didn't even remember taking them off. It was by the grace of god alone that he had not wound up stewing in his own sweaty clothes.

However, when Yusuf tried to leave the room, he was surprised to find his doorway blocked. The tapestry that allowed him some privacy had somehow been nailed shut, and try as he might he couldn't budge it. Perhaps if he weren't so tired, he could have ripped it in two- but then he'd need a new tapestry.

Someone would pay for this, Yusuf thought darkly.

"Hey!" He tried to sound loud, but his voice was not much higher than a whisper, "Will someone please let me out?"

There was no reply but shuffling footsteps; Yusuf tried again.

"Hello! Why is my door blocked?"

"Yusuf," The Bursan recognized his master's voice at the other end of the door, "How are you feeling?"

He paused before answering, "Tired," Yusuf admitted, "and a little sick, but healthy enough to work."

"You have the contagion, _ogrenci_." (Student) Ishak explained, "If I let you out, you would spread it to your brothers and sisters in a heartbeat."

"But I do not feel that bad," Yusuf protested, and found his words to be somewhat truthful- he was starting to feel more like himself, "I could be doing something useful! What good is it to lock me away in this room?"

"It is plenty good," Ishak replied sternly, "And I expect you to stay in there until you are less infectious."

"Master-" Yusuf whined.

"That is the matter, Tazim. I suggest you get some rest- and do not speak with the other Assassins."

Footsteps sounded again, and it was clear to the twenty-seven-year-old that the debate was over. Yusuf returned to his cot and sat, fuming with frustration. He had to respect Ishak's judgment, and his brain informed him that the Mentor's decision was the right one. But it didn't make waiting around any easier.

As the day went by, tea and biscuits appeared in the doorway. Yusuf drank the tea, but didn't feel confident enough to touch solid food. Instead he spent his time napping.

On one occasion when sleep eluded him, he noticed a familiar white fur-ball curled up against his stomach.

The kitten, as though feeling his gaze, looked up innocently. Yusuf found that although he did not enjoy animals lounging around on his person, he could not send the feline away.

"Damn you, you little fleabag," Yusuf muttered, glaring at the kitten, "I bet you're the one who got me sick in the first place."

His words did not seem to affect the kitten, who then proceeded to nibble on his belt.

Yusuf elected to return to sleep.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Several hours later, the Turk was nursing a cup of herbal tea on his cot, feeling generally better, when the Den shook with a loud thumping sound.

Yusuf placed his cup on the ground and jumped to his feet, running immediately to the doorframe.

Sporadic footfalls followed by another thump, then cursing.

"Who's there?" The Assassin asked as noisily as his sore voice permitted.

"Yusuf?" Zavi replied loudly. Someone ran up to his curtain, then halted, "Why are you nailed inside your room?"

"Never mind that," Yusuf said quickly, "What's happening?"

"One of our Dens was under assault," The twenty-one-year-old explained, "Kesafa, Emmanoul and myself were just returning for more supplies when a rifleman's bullet pierced Emmanoul's shoulder, deeply."

Yusuf bit his lip. He had to help his brothers, even if he did end up infecting them. What's a little cold next to a possible funeral? Besides, he couldn't possibly be that contagious. Not everyone would get sick if he spent five minutes saving a man's life.

"Let me out," He ordered Zavi, "I can help."

"Uh…Are you sure?"

"Zavi!"

"_Evet, __evet!__" _

A tight ripping sound filled the air, and Yusuf stifled the need to tell Zavi to take care with his tapestry. Soon the doorway was clear, and Yusuf could step into the Den once more.

Zavi, his scarves pulled down and bright eyes panicked, grabbed Yusuf's arm and began to lead him.

"Zavi!" Kesafa beckoned from the main room, "He's lost consciousness!"

"Go and get a doctor," Yusuf instructed her when they arrived. The woman nodded and pulled her hood up, running for the door.

The Turk then knelt beside the wounded man, taking his head in his lap. The damage was mostly on the right shoulder, and it was messy.

Yusuf let out a few coughs, then began to belt out whatever orders came to his head. He wasn't entirely sure what he was doing, but for now the objective was to keep Emmanoul alive until the _hakim_showed. (healer)

After a few moments hasty medication, it seemed most of bleeding was under control. The fallen Assassin did not stir, but his breathing had become more pronounced. Yusuf was certain he'd survive, if not recover completely.

His breath caught in his throat, stumbling over a mound of mucus and producing several more wet coughs. Yusuf propelled them into his sleeve, which he dully noted could use a good cleansing.

After a few minutes of silence, he remarked to Zavi:

"So, you and Kesafa?"

The younger Assassin seemed aghast; his eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

"T-there's nothing-"

"Oh please," Yusuf smiled, his voice gritty, "you think I haven't noticed?"

"She's my partner," Zavi sniffed indignantly, "Nothing more, nothing-"

"Of course, of course," Yusuf nodded.

Zavi glared at him for a while before admitting:

"So what if we're involved?"

Yusuf shrugged, "there is no 'what'. I was merely curious."

"I thought you said you'd noticed."

The Bursan laughed, a disfigured sound, "Alright, I lied. I wanted to see your reaction."

The recruit in question chose that moment to barrel through the door, doctor tailing behind her.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

One week later, Galata was a miserable heap. Yusuf Tazim could be found wandering the Bureau's halls with either one of two things in hand: a clay platter, which he used to transport multiple glasses of herbal tea at once, and a large bucket.

Being the only immune Assassin available, Yusuf served as nanny to dozens of his ailing comrades, who could not find the strength to rise from their beds. He'd go from room to room, offering tea to those willing to drink, and the bucket to those whose stomachs were less than cooperative.

It was a disgusting errand, but it was thirty times better than being on the receiving end of a vomit pail.

Yusuf was drawn to his master's study by several loud, painful sounding coughs. Ishak sat at his desk, eyes sunken, face pale, and hands trembling.

"Mentor," Yusuf said softly, placing his bucket on the ground as he approached, "You should not be working in your state."

"Yusuf…" The old Assassin shuddered, turning his dead-eyed glare on the healthy man, "Remember when I quarantined you to your room last week?"

The Turk had no reply.

"Well," Ishak murmured, pausing to sneeze into a tissue, "Many thanks, Tazim. Many, many thanks."

Yusuf shrugged, picking his bucket back up and waddling out the door.

While making his rounds, curious white kitten in tow, he happened to drop by Zavi's room.

"_Uykulu, __saba __iyi,_" (good morning, sleepy) Yusuf sang as he entered, carefully balancing the lukewarm mugs of tea in his left hand.

The young Assassin was laying on his cot barely dressed beneath layers of blankets. Across from him, Kesafa sat cross-legged in the same nightgown she'd been wearing for two days now, sipping some of her own drink.

"He can't hear you-" The girl interrupted herself, gagging. When she'd recovered, the nineteen-year-old continued, "He's been passed out like that for the past six hours."

"Hm," Yusuf considered, "I'm beginning to feel guilty…"

"_Evet,_" Kesafa grunted, "Well, next time feel guilty _before _you infect the entire Brotherhood, alright?"

Yusuf smirked and turned to leave. There were more sick that needed his attention…


	8. VIII: In Which Yusuf Has A Bad Day

Constantinople, 1495

"Be careful!" The Byzantine warned, waving his arms at the incoming patrol, "We need that thing in the best condition possible!"

The other Templars nodded and adjusted the battering ram's bars before slowly coaxing the siege weapon into its tent.

"Look at them," Yusuf muttered under his breath as he glared upon the soldiers, "Do they think me blind and deaf?"  
>"Do not be too hasty, Yusuf," Ishak instructed the Assassin. Yusuf looked up into the old man's cautionary gaze, "This could be a very good way to lure you into the open."<p>

"Don't worry, Mentor," The Bursan grinned, "I plan on going into the open- I do not plan on being seen."

Ishak sighed, but nodded. It'd been a year since Yusuf took charge of the Grand Bazaar Den; he'd filled it with three of his best-skilled, most trusted Assassins, and they'd defended the hideout zealously.

But the audacity with which the Templars were preparing for their next assault troubled the Turk. The Byzantines had never been so obvious, which was why Yusuf had called for Ishak's assistance (it also was a very convenient way to prove himself eligible for Master Assassin status, which was an honor only the Mentor could bestow).

"So, what do you suppose we do, Assassin?" The old man asked.

Yusuf replied, "Sabotage. I will find a way to render their battering ram inoperable. Meanwhile, you will find the Templar leading the siege and kill him-" He interrupted himself nervously, "-sir." He hadn't meant to sound disrespectful.

"_Ince, _Yusuf. It is a good plan." The Master said, coughing shortly. (It's fine)

"Are you alright, _ogretmen?_" (mentor)

"Fine, fine," Ishak waved off his student's concern, "Let us do our work."

The Bursan nodded and rose from his spot on the roof. He walked to the building's edge and slipped off, catching himself with his hookblade. Slowly, he descended to street level, where he approached the Byzantine encampment alongside a curious crowd.

However, the tent holding the siege weapon was restricted to the public; three enormous and well-armored men stood at its entrance. The Turk grinned as he drew near; this would be too easy.

Waiting until the guards looked the other way, Yusuf pulled a cherry bomb from his belt and tossed it into the crowd. Before the explosive detonated, the Assassin darted across the street, diving behind a stack of crates.

A loud crack followed by brief screams from the road interrupted the peace. Yusuf peered out from his hiding place to see the two guards beginning their investigation and leaving the siege tent wide open. _Perfect. _

The Turk slipped from behind the crates and briskly walked towards the siege tent, Byzantine patrols completely oblivious to his presence. Yusuf slid into the large enclosure soundlessly, but found the area to be occupied.

"Hey," The Byzantine engineer peered up at him, lowering his tools. "Are you supposed to be-?"

Yusuf quickly silenced him with a hookblade to the throat. He placed his other hand at the base of the man's neck, gently lowering him to the floor as he sputtered his dying breaths. When the Templar had finally expired, Yusuf acquired his wrenches and picks, stowing them in his sash.

The Assassin stood and inspected the battering ram. Its size was roughly that of two horses side by side, and it was a prismatic shape. Sheets of iron protected its flanks, and it could only be moved by pushing on the two wooden bars that protruded from its sides. However, Yusuf mused, removing the bars wouldn't do him much good- they seemed easily repairable.

He progressed to the ram's tip: it was an enormous, drill-like piece of metal, attached to a very powerful looking wooden limb. The tip alone seemed able to fell a house with one swing.

Having selected his target, Yusuf used the engineer's tools to surgical remove the iron drill. The wrench unscrewed its bolts; the saw loosened its confines. Soon Yusuf was left with a large hunk of metal that easily weighed over forty pounds.

The Bursan frowned; the tip would be too heavy to lug around with him. But if he left it here, he risked the Byzantines reattaching it. Yusuf concluded he would smuggle the iron bradawl from the tent and dump it in an alleyway not too far away.

The trick now was to escape the tent without being seen…

Yusuf tiptoed to the enclosure's entrance and poked his nose between the leathery sheets. Unsurprisingly, the watch had returned to its post and seemed doubly resolved not to become distracted this time.

Sighing, Yusuf set down the cumbersome weight and examined his inventory. Throwing knives, daggers, multiple bombs…Maybe one of those could help him. The Turk's features lit up as his fingers closed around a wonderfully round object- he still carried two smoke bombs.

The Assassin got on his knees and procured a single explosive. He pulled the bomb's pin and rolled it beneath the tent flap, right between two pairs of Byzantine boots…

A loud explosion followed by a hissing noise was Yusuf's signal. The Bursan jumped to his feet, scooped up the iron tip and dashed through the smoke, leaving the stunned Templars choking in his dust.

"Assassins!"

Yusuf was gone by the time the accusation hit the air.

Something pleasing bubbled in Yusuf's chest as he raced through Constantinople's backstreets. He almost laughed with the thrill of a successful escape, peering over his shoulder to check for pursuit. There was none.

The twenty-eight-year-old ran until his arms ached and his lungs heaved. Finally, Yusuf paused for breath, setting the lump of metal on the ground beside him. Once he had recovered, Yusuf smeared the weapon's shiny surface with mud and tossed it into an uncovered wagon lying in the alley.

All that was left now was to rendezvous with the Mentor. Yusuf climbed onto the rooftops somewhat painfully and jogged to their original hide-spot, eager to inform his Master of a job well done.

However, Ishak was strangely lacking when the Turk arrived. Yusuf investigated the rooftop, quietly calling out for the old man- until the cries of angered Templars and the snarls of unsheathed swords sounded from the street.

"Assassins!" More and more men were ganging up on the hooded figure.

Yusuf examined the situation from his view on the rooftop: the Grand Master Assassin appeared wounded- his back was hunched over, a hand was clutching his chest, and his breathing was labored. His sword shook terribly in his grasp.

Without a second thought, Yusuf leapt from the building, hookblade drawn and glistening in the sunlight. For a few moments he sailed through the air, before his feet connected with a Byzantine backside and his blade found a neck.

Ishak was faring even worse up close- the man was barely on his feet. But there was no time for conversation; their enemies were quickly surrounding them.

Yusuf grimaced. There were far too many soldiers to approach directly. Even without Ishak's injuries, Yusuf doubted the two of them could defeat the entire Byzantine army.

And so the Bursan was forced to switch tactics. He ripped the last smoke bomb from his belt and hurled it to the ground. A thick, black fog immediately broke out, allowing the Assassin to sling his Master's arm around his shoulder and drag him to safety.

Once they had rounded the corner, Yusuf flung a cherry bomb across the way, ensuring that the Templars pursued the wrong direction. It was only then that he allowed himself to become concerned with his Mentor's welfare:

"_Ogretmen-_" Yusuf began, but Ishak's gasping coughs drowned out his thoughts. Yusuf pried at the man's hand, which seemed glued to his chest, but the Master tugged lightly at his arm. Ishak's lips moved, yet no sound came out.

The Assassin's mind swam as Ishak drifted out of consciousness. Should he carry him back to the Bazaar den? Or would too much strain further damage him? A brief examination revealed no outer injuries to the elder man, so that meant…

No. Yusuf would not think about it.

The Bursan gathered his thin Mentor into his arms and set off for the Bazaar as quickly as he could. He only hoped one of his fellows would have a better idea of how to handle the situation…

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The Den had been quiet since Yusuf and the Mentor had departed. Kesafa had already patrolled the area three times, and it was clear the Byzantines were still counting their losses- no one had approached them yet. Zavi had taken four thirty-minute watches on the roof, and Arye had tidied up the Den's interior files, so they could be easily recovered if the Den fell.

The three Assassins were enjoying a brief spell of down time when the Den door was practically kicked off its hinges.

Yusuf burst into the room, a crumpled form in his arms. The three merely stared at him as he stumbled forward.

"Don't just stand there!" The Bursan yelled.

Immediately, Zavi and Kesafa were at his side, helping shift the Master's weight. Slowly, the three Assassins lowered Ishak to the ground, onto several cushions.

"What happened?" Arye, a skillful man only two years Yusuf's junior asked, confused.

Ishak moaned in his sleep and his head turned.

"I don't know," Yusuf admitted, eyes wide with fear and bewilderment, "We had just finished our mission and he…collapsed."

"He doesn't seem feverish," Kesafa announced, removing her palm from the Mentor's forehead.

"Then what could it be?" Zavi wondered.

Kesafa ordered, "Yusuf, bring him some water."

Nodding, he obeyed the woman and rose to his feet, sending his Mentor one more worried glance before heading into the Den's interior.

When Yusuf returned, the situation seemed to have improved. Ishak sat propped up against the Den's pillows, dazed but awake. Zavi and Kesafa supported him with hands on his shoulders while Arye swiftly approached Yusuf.

"Yusuf, what's to be done-?" The anxious Assassin tried to ask, but Yusuf hushed him.

"Let the Mentor explain for himself." He suggested.

The group of Assassins huddled around their teacher, who slowly sipped the water that cleared his throat.

"I am sorry to have worried you all," He began quietly.

"Master, are you ill?" Kesafa asked.

Ishak sighed tiredly. He looked up at the female Assassin and gave her a sad little smile, "Yes, _sevgili_, I believe I am." (my dear)

"I would like to speak with Yusuf alone, please."

The Assassins were stunned, Yusuf perhaps most of all. All he could do was stare as his comrades stood and left the room, respectful of their Mentor's wishes even if they did not understand them.

"Yusuf," Ishak commenced when he was certain they were alone, "I…wanted to keep it from you. But I am dying."

"I don't understand," Yusuf replied flatly. This was not some old man- this was Ishak. This was the leader of the Turkish Assassin Brotherhood, the right hand man of Mehmed II during the conquest of Wallachia, the man who killed Vlad the Impaler, the man who had taken Yusuf from a life of poverty to life a meaning and love. He could not die.

"I am sorry, _oglum._" (my boy) The Master bowed his head, defeated.

"Do not be sorry," Yusuf could not mask the tears in his voice. Ishak had been a father to him, a role model, a friend. He was not ready to lose him so suddenly. "Grow stronger. Beat your illness."

"Yusuf," Ishak spoke gently, lifting his hand to stroke Yusuf's arm, "Look at me. I am an old man now. How much longer do you think I can keep up with you?"

"No excuses," Yusuf shook his head, mirroring the words of discipline that had helped him become the skilled warrior he was certain his father had been.

"I have known you for ten years, Yusuf," Ishak continued, "I have watched you grow from a young pup to a strong leader. You have always impressed me, even today when you destroyed a Byzantine camp and rescued me at once."

The Bursan listened well to the words of his dying Mentor, but could not force himself to believe them.

"That is why," The old man took a deep breath, "I want you to replace me."

Yusuf's jaw dropped, but Ishak only chuckled.

"Do not act surprised; I have been telling you for years. You will do so much good for this Brotherhood, and for all of Konstantiniyye. I know it."

"But, Master…" Yusuf mouthed.

"Yusuf, I do not have long to tell you this," Ishak explained, "my illness is...It may take me tomorrow, it may take me five years from now. But I wanted to make sure you knew: you are my successor."

"I…" Yusuf swallowed, "I am honored, _ogretmen._"

"I believe in you, Yusuf," Ishak whispered as his lids grew heavy. He rested his head against the pillows, "I always have."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

When the news broke in the halls of the Galata hideout that the Mentor had fallen ill, the Assassins found themselves in a state of confusion. Ishak was to be given much rest, and was only able to answer a limited number of inquiries. The rest was left in the hands of gossip.

Since his talk with Ishak, Yusuf had been very troubled and distant. Ishak was vizier- how could a Bursan street rat possibly hope to duplicate such political power? Ishak was wise and sagely- Yusuf wasn't even thirty yet. Too many problems, not enough solutions.

Yusuf found himself contemplating these issues when the frantic whispers of his fellows broke through his shield of concentration:

"…Family?"

"No, he said he has already picked the next Mentor."

Yusuf's ears perked, and he found himself drawn to the group despite his conflictions.

"It is just as well," One voice commented, "I am surprised the old man lasted as long as he did."

"How serious is his illness?"

"Bad, I heard," Another Assassin answered, "It's his heart- it's been plaguing him for weeks now; aches, shortness of breath, et cetera…"

"Ah," A female asked, "How long has he got?"

"No more than a few months, I'd wager."

"Months? The old _kalinti _can't have more than a week or two left in him." (relic)

"Why stop at weeks?" A man added drily, "I'm sure he'll be out within the next few days"

"Shame on you."

The room fell silent at Yusuf's dark accusation. The group slowly turned to look at him, watching the disgusted expression on his face.

"Shame on all of you," Yusuf amended, glaring at every single one of his comrades, "How dare you label our Mentor's life with numbers!"

"_Kendinizi sakin, _Yusuf," The Turk was stunned to find Arye, his own man, speaking to him, "We all knew Ishak's days were dwindling. The _yasli adam _was getting sloppy, making mistakes." (calm yourself) (old man)

Yusuf could not dignify the statement with a response.

But then another of the Assassins spoke up, "I agree. It is only natural that our Mentor step down- he has outlived his purpose."

Yusuf's blood ran cold, and he staggered back as though hurt. A large part of him wished to leap forward and defend Ishak's honor, but another wanted to agree with his fellows.

Unable to reply to their cold, unfeeling logic, Yusuf gave them one last disbelieving glare before turning and fleeing the Den.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

It was on the roof that Zavi and Kesafa found their commanding officer after several hours of waiting for his temper to cool. Yusuf sat, chin resting on his knees, scanning the Constantine skyline distantly.

Zavi hesitantly came to sit next to him, and Kesafa followed shortly. Silence passed between the three, as none could find the right words to address Yusuf's plight.

"Yusuf," the twenty-two-yeat-old began cautiously, "We're sorry-"

"I do not need your condolences."

_Yes you do, _a little voice in the Bursan's mind pointed out.

"There is something we need to tell you, _ogretmen." _Kesafa spoke up bravely. Yusuf turned to face them, trying to clear the frustration from his face. His pupils were wonderful people, but he wanted to be left alone.

"Yusuf," Zavi tried again, taking a deep breath, "Kesafa and I…We want to be married."

Not for the first time that day, Yusuf was speechless. He raised his eyebrows, beckoning Zavi to continue. But it was Kesafa who added:

"You have earned our respect, Yusuf," She told him, "You are a wise leader, and a good man."

"And we were wondering," Zavi discreetly wound his arm around Kesafa's shoulder; the young couple smiled sweetly at the Turk as Zavi continued: "Would you be our child's godfather?"

"Godfather?" Yusuf repeated incredulously, eyes widening. Before he could stop himself, his gaze wandered to Kesafa's midriff and the question formed on his lips.

Kesafa nodded, cheeks flushed.

"You have always been a big brother to me, Yusuf," Zavi said, eyes shining with admiration, "Since we were little children living in dirt alleys."

"I…" Yusuf trailed off. "I don't know what do say."

"Say you'll do it," Kesafa suggested, "We haven't picked out a name yet, and we could always use a third opinion."

For the first time that week, Yusuf smiled.

"Come here, you two."

The elder Assassin enveloped his students in a warm embrace, draping his arms over their backs. The world may have been crazy, Istanbul may be burning when they wake the next day, and the Assassin Brotherhood may have no Mentor.

But Yusuf Tazim had a family.

"It would be my pleasure to godfather your son, Zavi."


	9. IX: In Which Yusuf Meets A Blind Man

Constantinople, 1496

A shrewd thought weaseled through Yusuf's mind when he sat across from his master just as he had so many times before: how long would it be until this office was his own?

The Turk punished himself mentally as Ishak coughed out a greeting, but Yusuf found he couldn't banish the observation from his head; especially not when the entire Brotherhood was whispering of the Mentor's condition. It seemed the old man worsened with each passing week, and the physicians could give them nothing but drugs to dull the pain.

"So, what's the news today?" Ishak asked, settling back into his seat.

Yusuf considered, "Rather good, _ogretmen_. I've dispatched two cells of five to Jerusalem, and they are working to turn the city in our favor. Another cell is working nearby in Damascus, and when they finish, they will meet with a third cell in Cyprus before returning."

Ishak's fingers stroked his beard, assessing Yusuf's moves. The twenty-nine year old was already transforming into a master general, and a fine leader. He held the confidence of the Assassins, and his charisma made up for the lack of royalty in his bloodline. Yes, the boy who was once an impetuous street rat would make an admirable replacement.

The teacher raised his brows as he remarked, "You are spread thin, Tazim. Have you any men with you in the city?"

The Bursan grimaced, "No. But I do not feel it will be a problem, Mentor."

Ishak frowned, but allowed his student's claim to go unchallenged. For a few moments, the pair of Assassins sat in silence. Then, Ishak procured an envelope from his desk and announced quietly:

"I…received this letter earlier, Yusuf. I believe you should open it."

Yusuf bowed his head briefly and picked up the parchment, unfolding it. His gaze halted at the top, and he hesitantly commented:

"Master, this letter is addressed to the head of the Assassin Brotherhood…" Yusuf trailed off at the look of resignation on Ishak's face.

"You are already acting as Mentor, my pupil," The old man coughed, then smiled, "It's time you took on a few more of my responsibilities while I'm still alive to give them to you."

Finding himself speechless, the Turk returned to reading. After a few seconds, he said, "It's from a wealthy aristocrat, Marco…Tr-Triah-Triahn-"

"Marco Triano," Ishak corrected.

"_Evet, evet,_" Yusuf murmured quickly and returned his eyes to the paper.

"What does he want?"

Yusuf read further, "…Protection. He says he will meet with me and fund the Assassin Brotherhood's international travel if I protect him from the Byzantines."

"Why do the Byzantines wish him harm?"

The young man squinted hard at the swirling letters on the parchment, "He says…because he did not share his wealth with them."

When he was finished, Yusuf dropped the letter back onto the desk and folded his hands in his lap, "Rubbish, I think."

Ishak coughed into his elbow, then cleared his throat and asked, "Why do you think that?"

"He sounds too desperate," Yusuf shrugged, "And the Byzantines are not after every rich man in the country. Besides, how do I know 'Marco' isn't a Templar captain with a sword up his _got_?" (ass)

Ishak nodded and gave his student a few minutes for contemplation. "So what will you do?"

Yusuf sighed, "Normally, I'd send an apprentice to scope it out. But, since I am shorthanded… I will do it myself."

"And if it's a trap?"

"I will have to fight my way out."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The Grand Bazaar was no busier that evening than usual. Crowds still sifted through its halls like flour through a sieve, merchants still tossed their best pitches into the stream of people, and hired guards still gave everyone dirty looks. All in all, it was Yusuf's kind of place.

Which was why the elderly man didn't notice the Turk until he was practically beside him; when Yusuf enjoyed himself in a certain area, he was often difficult to find.

However, the Bursan did not approach him directly. Marco hadn't given him a very detailed description, but Yusuf was managing. The elderly man on the street corner was foreign- whether he was Italian or Greek was still undecided. Aside from his nationality, the man was nervous, fidgeting. His thin fingers were clasped around a purse, which hung limply from his shoulders by a strap that could be cut so easily it almost pained Yusuf that he had no reason to steal it.

After a while of indecision, Yusuf finally elected to greet the old gentleman.

"_Beni bagislayin,_" (excuse me) The Turk murmured softly, "I am searching for a…" He paused, biting his lip, "Marco Triyanyo?"

The old man frowned at him, at first confused, then fearful.

"And if I could show you where he is?"

"I heard he was looking for the Assassins," Yusuf explained, quickly leaving the wounded Italian name to die in the air, "And I may be able to help him find them."

Without warning, the foreigner's hand latched onto Yusuf's arm and he leaned in close. Though Yusuf was taller than the man by nearly a head, their faces were uncomfortably close.

"Did they send you?" He whispered feverishly.

"_…Evet,_" Yusuf replied with caution, "I am a student of their Mentor's."

The aristocrat relaxed, and Yusuf jerked his arm from his clamp-like hand.

"I am Marco _Triano,_" the Italian put heavy emphasis on his last name while giving the Turk an irritated glance, "And I have business with your leader."

"Business of what sort?" Yusuf wondered, raising an eyebrow.

"That is for his ears only," Marco retorted, then looked about warily, "And I'm not saying a word more until we are out of this market. I feel exposed here."

_Only thirty seconds met, and already ordering me about like a servant, _Yusuf thought.

"_Kesinlikle,_" (certainly) The Bursan answered after a few moments hesitation, "Follow me, _efendim._"

Marco was quick on his heels as the Assassin exited the shouk. As they walked, Yusuf tried to pry more information out of the old Italian, but the man wouldn't budge. Every question was met with 'I will speak only with your master'. After a few minutes it became terribly boring. Not even the local fire-jugglers and sword-swallowers could keep Yusuf's attention as he led his charge through the streets, hoping to draw the Byzantines out (if they were even there to begin with, the Assassin snorted).

A short distance from the port, Marco spoke up.

"_Signore, _we are being followed."

Yusuf halted and turned, surveying the small crowd behind them. No padded burgundy jackets stood out; no tall halberds pierced the human waves.

"…By who, _aman efendim_?" (my lord) Yusuf remarked drily, sparing his companion a sideways glance.

"The Byzantines, who else?" Marco hissed, "Three men- they've been hounding me this whole way!"

"Can you point them out?"

Marco nodded, "Let us walk a bit further. They will stop when we stop."

They proceeded as such, and six steps later Marco grabbed at Yusuf's arm (where a nice brown bruise was beginning to form).

"There," The elderly man whispered, indicating a small group of five that had stopped to chat with an herb merchant. "I'm certain it's them."

Yusuf took a moment to look them over. The group was of Turkish nature, the men wearing headscarves and sleeveless tunics. Yusuf did note that a few of them carried daggers, but other than that there was nothing unusual.

"You'd better be right, _dedem_," (grandpa) The Turk muttered as he loosed the opening to his bomb pouch. He procured an oval-shaped object, light in weight. Yusuf instructed the Italian to cover his eyes, then tossed the explosive over to the crowd.

A loud crack sounded, and then there was a brilliant flash. Yusuf studied the men carefully as they reacted to the explosion. Two fled the scene, yelling for help- three stayed behind, daggers now unsheathed. They whirled around, bewildered.

"Stay here," Yusuf ordered Marco before jogging over to the confused Turkmen. They appeared to be whispering amongst themselves and glaring at Marco.

"Hey!" The Assassin called, gathering their attention, "What's happened here, _efendimler?" _

"He's the one that threw it!" One of the men announced, jabbing a finger in Yusuf's direction.

"He's an Assassin bodyguard," Another explained, and the third attacked.

Yusuf barely had time to draw his sword before the other two were on him. He used the iron weapon to parry their blows, but the third man was circling him.

The Assassin dropped his sword and popped out his hookblade. When the next swing came at him, Yusuf latched onto it with the blade's curved end and flipped the weapon clean out of its wielder's hands. He then kicked his opponent in the stomach and, once he was doubled up, incapacitated him with a knee to the forehead.

The other two were similarly vanquished. Their sight still half blinded by the flash bomb, their strikes were uncoordinated, sluggish, and easily used against them. Soon, all three stalkers lay moaning at Yusuf's feet.

Yusuf was aware that this was probably only a single group. There was a good chance there were more behind them. And, he thought grimly, they weren't just any Byzantine agents- they were _good. _Yusuf had been walking along for nearly half an hour, and he hadn't noticed them. Perhaps Marco wasn't all tall-tales and wide eyes…

"Did you kill them?" The Italian wondered when Yusuf returned, peering in awe at the groaning bodies in the distance.

"No," Yusuf replied, grabbing the man's elbow and dragging him swiftly through the street, "But let's say I believe you now."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

They made it to the nearest Assassin Den without incident. Although Marco and, admittedly, Yusuf were quite paranoid throughout the whole trip, they were not intercepted. Heading into the Den was merely a ruse, a bluff to scare the remaining Templars off. Yusuf knew the hideout was empty.

He waited until Marco had caught his breath before remarking:

"You're rather perceptive for a blind man."

Marco started, staring incredulously at the young Assassin.

"I'm over this way," Yusuf added, lids lowered. Marco sighed, exasperated.

"Fine, fine," He admitted, "so I can't see. I had you fooled for a while, did I not?"

Yusuf licked his lips and nodded, "I suppose. Your eyes have not lightened in color, as I was taught sightless people's do."

"Ah, well," Marco digressed, "the problem lies not with my eyeballs. It was a blow to the back of the head that did it: I was strolling in my garden when something hit me, and everything went dark…" The old man paused, looking down sadly. "…And it stayed that way for the next fifteen years."

Yusuf shrugged, no stranger himself to sad stories.

"But I am not the only one who's concealed the truth," Marco folded his arms and glared accusingly at the spot he believed Yusuf's voice came from, "You are no apprentice."

"Oh? What gives you that idea?"

Marco answered immediately, "You are too comfortable, too smug. You walk the streets of this _citta _like you own it."

Yusuf said nothing.

"So, are _you _the Mentor? Or merely a highly trained skirmisher?"

The Bursan sighed and rested his eyes a moment. If the old man really did have business with the Assassins, it wouldn't hurt to hear him through. And Ishak had made it clear on multiple occasions that Yusuf should not feel shy around his new duties as official Master of the Brotherhood.

"Yes, I am the Mentor. And I should like to hear what business you come to offer me, _signore_." The Italian word left Yusuf's mouth sharply.

"_Molto bene,_" Marco began, "I am here because I need your help. A few weeks ago, a handsome gentleman approached me and started to take an interest in my money. He claimed it was for a 'higher cause' or some such nonsense," The Italian paused, "either way, I didn't give him one cent. After a while, he grew tired of waiting.

The man began to leave me threatening messages- first for me, then my wife, my children. After they tried to have me killed once, I ran. I came to Constantinopoli because I heard it was a good place to disappear."

"And where do I come into this?" Yusuf asked, and his brow furrowed, "In your letter you mentioned funding. That you would help us plan our international voyages."

"And if I hadn't said what was in it for you, would you still have come?" Marco snapped back, something angry in his voice.

Yusuf had to admit he wouldn't have.

"I am an old man, _signore._" The anger faded, and a broken, defeated man was brought to center. "I just want to die in peace."

"You lied, then." Yusuf announced casually, "What's stopping me from turning you in to your Templar hunters?"

"You won't," Marco countered, "it's against your Creed."

The Assassin stared at the man in disbelief.

"Do not harm an innocent-"

"But helping you would compromise the Brotherhood, would it not?" Yusuf challenged. "If you know our Creed so well-"

"How have you been compromised?" Marco interrupted sharply.

Yusuf's words died on his tongue. Instead there was a moment of silence, which ended when Marco said quietly:

"My brother was an Assassin once," The man's voice was lifeless. "He was killed almost forty-five years ago."

Somehow Yusuf couldn't bring himself to wish Marco his condolences.

"I can pay," Marco added after a few moments, "I will reward you, Assassin. But please, _amico_, just help me vanish. I don't want to die yet."

As they left the Den, Yusuf had to hand it to the man. He was a coward, but he was a smart one.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The port was crawling with irritated Byzantines and too-curious Ottoman guards, but it was nothing Yusuf's bomb pouch couldn't handle. With a clever mix of cherry, decoy, and datura bombs to entertain the watch, there was no one to see the two outlaws climb into a gondola and row away.

With the Imperial district behind them, Galata before them, and several hundred gallons of water between them, the two felt there was enough noise to drown out conversation. Besides, Yusuf wasn't sure how to feel about the man- on one side, he wanted to protect his family and himself, and he hadn't given the Templars any money out of fear. But, he'd tricked the Brotherhood into defending him, and now he'd persuaded Yusuf to agree to things that didn't sit well with the young Bursan. Marco was wise, but shrewd and manipulative- both characteristics Yusuf had trouble settling with.

When they finally arrived in Galata, Yusuf helped the old man from the lightly rocking boat and onto the pier. Once they had regained their bearings, Yusuf told him:

"You may disappear in Galata- the area is Assassin controlled. We have a large Den to the north, where you may rest for a while."

"_Grazie mile, amico caro,_" Marco bowed deeply, but then returned to his skeptical self. "And if the Templars should find me? Should send more spies after me?"

The look Yusuf gave him was cold, "Then I did not see them."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Ishak did not appear much healthier during Yusuf's next session with the grand master. The two met at least once a week, discussing tactics and methods more than they used to. Ishak once jokingly referred to their time as 'sucking all the juice from the fruit before tossing it away'. Though Yusuf had thought it crude, he realized his Master was right. The old man only had a few months left in him, and he had acquired so much wisdom… It was all he could do to pass it on.

During their last meeting, however, Yusuf found himself distracted. Ishak finally asked:

"What's on your mind, _ogrenci_?" (student)

Yusuf sighed, looking up to meet his Mentor's sunken gaze, "Can one protect an innocent if it endangers the Brotherhood?"

Ishak folded his hands on his desk and furrowed his brow, "That is a difficult question, Yusuf."

Yusuf hummed in agreement and sat back, still pondering the topic deeply.

"Nothing is more precious in this world than innocent life," Ishak began, "And those who join the Brotherhood know that they are putting themselves at risk every day."

"We fight to protect the people as well," Yusuf added, "Sacrificing an innocent's life to save that of a Brother…Would be hypocritical."

"Maybe," Ishak shrugged, "Or maybe not. If that Brother went on to save the lives of hundreds more, does that place you in the right or the wrong for sacrificing him?"

"What is the value of a single human life? What is one innocent to thousand?"

The discussion followed for a long time. Both men were so engrossed in their learning; they did not notice the sun slipping past the window. Just when Yusuf thought he had reached a standing point, a viable solution, Ishak was there with some reason why it couldn't be so. Soon, dusk came, and the old man needed his rest.

But as Yusuf helped his Master through the halls of the Galata hideout, Ishak told him quietly:

"Your first responsibility as Mentor is to uphold the Creed, Yusuf. Let it be your guide, your foundation. Do not waver, because the entire Brotherhood follows in your example. When you fall, they fall farther. But when you climb to your feet, they take to the sky."


	10. X: In Which Yusuf Is Openly Worshipped

Constantinople, 1497

The wind blew, encouraging Yusuf to pull the scarf tighter around his face. His boots molded large prints into the fresh snow as he walked, but it was the air that really chilled him. Kostantiniyye had seen an unprecedented amount of snowfall that December, and the icy rooftops were taking their toll on the Ottoman Assassins' maneuverability.

As he strolled through the newly decorated streets of Galata, Yusuf considered where his life was headed. In truth, the walk had been meant to clear his head, as sometimes being Grandmaster was…stressful.

Seven months had gone by since the death of Ishak Pasha, but the Brotherhood did not seem to have changed. Many of its members had already started to see Yusuf as the new Mentor before the old one retired, but even they felt something ebb away when the vizier passed. Though Yusuf couldn't blame them, he was left somewhat saddened that only a handful of Assassins felt truly sorry for Ishak's death.

It had been a struggle to retain their friends in the court, Yusuf recalled. When he'd first paid his visits to the nobles partial to his cause, the men had been skeptical. They did not believe Yusuf to be Ishak's pupil. He seemed too young, too inexperienced and finally- too common. It was his smile alone that managed to keep the Turk's allies from turning tail.

Too young…the accusation echoed in Yusuf's mind as he rounded a corner, making more tracks in the snow. Three months ago he'd turned thirty; old enough to have a wife and family, a home of his own. But instead he'd watched his childhood friends grow into fathers while he remained alone, a little boy playing general.

"Mentor!"

Yusuf was prevented from further grappling with his thoughts by the outburst of his student, who came dashing towards him through the bitter wind.

"Yes?" The Turk nodded for her to proceed and folded his hands into his sleeves, regretting not bringing his gloves.

The young woman paused to catch her breath, "Your presence is requested at the headquarters!"

"What seems to be the trouble?" Yusuf asked, eyebrows raised. Everything had been quiet when he'd left only an hour ago.

The Assassin appeared hesitant to answer. She bit her lip before replying, "There is a situation. Khamen said he could take care of it, but," she swallowed, "I thought you should know."

"What type of situation?" Yusuf's eyes narrowed. He'd been hoping for a little time off…

"I cannot explain here, Mentor. Please, follow me."

-0-0-0-0-0-

When master and apprentice neared the hideout's courtyard, they were greeted by strangled shouts. The Bursan quickened his pace and entered the square to find one of his strongest pupils restraining a young boy.

The boy screamed profanity and threats his captor, who continued to hold him in a deathly-tight grip. Finally the Assassin noted Yusuf's presence and let the street urchin go, eager to show respect.

"Mentor!"

"What is this?" Yusuf demanded as the youngster collapsed onto the snow, coughing.

"Just a rat, _effendim,_" The student replied, throwing a hand in the boy's direction. "He's been harassing us for days now."

The adolescent stood, brushing himself off. When Yusuf studied him, it became apparent he was much older than he looked. While the male was short, his eyes were large, and his hair messy, there was a certain hardness in his face that could not belong to a child.

When the young man caught sight of Yusuf, his expression brightened. Immediately he rushed to the Turk and fell before his feet, singing out praise.

Yusuf's eyes widened with alarm and he instinctively pulled his boot free of his admirer's lunge. Khamem, the larger Assassin, quickly dragged the boy off him.

"No," Yusuf intervened when the youngster cried out against his subjugator, "Let him speak."

The Assassin gave Yusuf a look that questioned his sanity, but released the teenager yet again.

"You are Yusuf Tazim," the young man exclaimed, staring at the Turk with uncomfortable intensity, "leader of the Assassin Brotherhood!"

"And what may I do for you, _genc bir?_" (young one) Yusuf asked cautiously.

Before anyone could stop him, the boy was back on the ground, groveling at Yusuf's feet.

"I wish to join you!" He swore, "I want to become an Assassin!"

"Please, Mentor, allow me to toss him out," The pupil pleaded, "he's a desperate case."

"No!" The adolescent yelped as his assailant's arms took a swing at him. Yusuf stopped his student with a waved hand and bent down to the boy's height.

"Why should I listen to you, eh?" He asked quietly.

There was no response. The wide-eyed teen's cheeks heated and he became flustered. It was clear his mind was racing for something, anything to say- but no answer materialized.

Finally, he whispered, "I beg of you, kind master. At least allow me a chance to prove myself."

Yusuf considered it. The Mentor then climbed back to his feet, glaring down at the street rat harshly. Even the wind fell silent as all attention in the courtyard centered on Yusuf's decision.

"One chance, provided you do not kiss my feet ever again."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The boy's name was Aharan oglu Amam, and he was nineteen years of age. He was skinny, easily fatigued, and inflexible- all traits that spelled doom to any upcoming recruit.

In the following weeks, Yusuf personally oversaw Aharan's training, but the results were not promising. The poor wretch couldn't hold a sword properly, and his sense of balance was practically a joke. And yet the young man was infused with a sort of determination that was so strong Yusuf shuddered just talking to him.

The one thing Aharan excelled in, to the surprise of both Yusuf and his peers, was bombcrafting. The recruit had a mind for such mixtures that even the master hadn't contemplated, and his casings never fell short, as others often did. Aharan was also a fine blacksmith, brilliantly repairing bent blades and blunt tips.

Admittedly, Yusuf wished he had twenty recruits with Aharan's resolve. But the fact of the matter was that if Yusuf had twenty recruits with Aharan's resolve, they would no longer have a city to defend, as the Templars would have vanquished them years ago. And so even though it pained him, when the day came for the recruits of his class to receive their new ranks, Aharan received nothing.

Yusuf was not surprised that the boy came to visit his office later that day. The Turk was napping at his desk using a stack of reports as a pillow when the knocks came.

The Assassin quickly roused himself and shook, muttering a gruff 'come in'. Fortunately, the lad who entered was too caught up in his own dilemma to notice Yusuf's brief slumber. Aharan sat across from the desk in the same seat Yusuf had occupied countless times before, and in the back of his mind the Bursan wondered if his successor would sit with him the way he did with Ishak.

"Speak, _ogrenci,_" (student) Yusuf beckoned him, discreetly cracking his fingers on the desk's surface.

"Forgive me, Mentor, for I am stupid."

Yusuf sighed heavily. This would be a difficult talk, this would.

"No, you're not. You are simply challenged."

"Challenged?" Aharan repeated, glaring up at his teacher with evident self-loathing, "I have failed nearly all of your tests!"

"Not all-"

"I cannot climb, I cannot run, and I cannot fight. I am a disgrace to the Brotherhood-"

"Silence!" Yusuf's eruption stunned the boy into closing his mouth, but the Turk felt his patience wearing thin. After a few moments of irritated quiet, Yusuf continued: "No apprentice of mine is a disgrace."

Aharan bowed his head and mumbled, "Of course, Mentor. Forgive me."

Why did the mutterings of a single man unnerve him so? If Aharan continued to feel so utterly hopeless, Yusuf would be forced to grab him by his shoulders and shake the boy until he developed a sense of confidence.

Suddenly the Turk felt the need for another nap.

"You are a smart boy, Aharan," The Bursan began, composing his thoughts and straightening, "whether or not you know it. And your training has been sticking to some recess of your mind, I'm sure."

Yusuf allowed the teenager to process this information before bringing his idea into the light.

"I propose you take on a mission by yourself," at the pupil's alarmed expression, Yusuf added, "I will watch over you, of course. But I will only intervene if something should go wrong."

"But, Mentor-"

"You know what your problem is?" Yusuf continued pointedly, frowning down at the boy, "You have no self-esteem. You do not respect yourself, nor give yourself credit where it's due."

Aharan merely stared in confusion, unable to decide whether Yusuf's analysis was a compliment or an insult.

"Well, _arkadashim, _how can you expect me to commend you when you cannot commend yourself?"

"But, master," the younger man cried, "I do not understand! How does one acquire esteem?"

"Ah," Yusuf grinned wryly, waving a finger as he leaned forward in his desk, "That's the question, isn't it? Hopefully, your next assignment will help you discover the answer."

When Yusuf sent the boy out that afternoon, both were wondering what that assignment would be.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Despite the harshness with which winter was proceeding, Yusuf found he was almost used to the cold by now. As he watched Aharan's progress from his icy perch on the roof, the Turk noted that his toes were losing their blood flow quite efficiently. Luckily, this mission would be a brief one. Yusuf was looking forward to a nice hot drink when he got back…

The task had practically presented itself the moment Yusuf left his office: a Templar official had grown bold enough to set foot on Assassin turf. It was an easy job to get rid of him and enforce a rule for the rest of Kostantiniyye- do not infringe on Assassin territory.

And so Yusuf rubbed his hands together, still waiting patiently as Aharan tailed the noble and his two almogavar bodyguards. Yusuf assumed the sole reason his student was not tossing a bomb was because a citizen must be nearby. Inaction made his supervision quite tedious, though…

Finally, there was a spot of movement. Yusuf's gaze focused on Aharan's sudden lunge as he thrust his hookblade into the back of an unsuspecting almogavar. The brute cried out, more in surprise than pain, and staggered forward. While the Templar and his companion stared, shell shocked, Aharan hurled a smokebomb to the ground.

And Yusuf's sightseeing came to an end.

The master scrambled down from his roost and ran into the street, squinting as best he could into the thick, black screen. He could hear a hookblade in action, whirling, clicking, and striking. A man screamed, only to be silenced, and a heavy thud sounded.

After a few more moments, the artificial fog lifted. The axe-wielding Byzantines lay on the ground in a heap, beaten but breathing. In the center of the road, Aharan held his blade to the Templar's throat.

Yusuf approached hesitantly, anticipating his student's kill. But the longer they waited, the less sure Yusuf became that the murder would even take place.

"What are you waiting for, Assassin?" The target mocked through a split and bloodied lip. Apparently, the little recruit had quite a punch.

Aharan's hookblade bit deeper into the man's neck, but it still did not run through. His hood shielded the boy's thoughts from Yusuf, who was now glancing around the area anxiously. If they were not gone soon, the local Ottoman patrols would be forced to involve themselves.

Suddenly, the apprentice lowered his head. His blade slipped from his target's jugular, and he murmured, "Forgive me, master. I cannot do this."

Yusuf walked over swiftly, eyeing the smug Templar with disdain. He crouched down to his student's height and touched his shoulder. When Aharan's eyes became visible, they welled with tears.

"Are you certain, _arkadashim?" _

Aharan nodded slowly. Yusuf sighed, admitting to himself that this had not been one of the expected outcomes. He brandished his own hidden blade and drove it into the noble's chest, listening closely to his last, wrenched gasps.

"Assassins!"

The call originated from down the street, but Yusuf knew that wasn't much of a head start. He leapt to his feet and broke into a run, Aharan behind him.

It was easy to lose their pursuers in Galata, as the area was quite friendly and hide spots were widely accessible. But the snow and ice slowed their progress, and Aharan's footsteps were misguided.

The chase ended on a rooftop near the hideout. Yusuf cleared the area as his apprentice scampered up the ladder and doubled up, wheezing. It appeared the Ottomans had lost their trail for the time being; they were free to relax.

Yusuf stared at Aharan with crossed arms. The teen took a while to notice, preoccupied as he was with soothing the burning sensation in his legs. But within a few seconds, Aharan looked up and nearly shriveled under his master's scrutiny.

"Mentor," He swallowed, staring wide-eyed into the snow, "I…"

"You do not need to apologize, young one," Yusuf explained, "I am not upset."

"Your expressions indicate otherwise…" Aharan whispered almost inaudibly.

The Bursan rolled his eyes and grit his teeth, thinking carefully on how to present the case in a non-threatening way. However just when he opened his mouth to speak, his student's eyes bulging from his head and he cried:

"Mentor!"

Before he could react, Yusuf was knocked to the ground. His head slammed against the hard ice of the roof and the air fled his lungs. A crossbow bolt sailed through the place he'd just been standing.

A panicked yell sounded and Yusuf turned just in time to see his student fly off the edge of the roof, arms flailing. There was a sickening crunch.

Yusuf climbed to his feet and flung a throwing knife at the crossbowman he'd failed to notice earlier, effectively ending the threat. Then he leaned over the rim and winced down at Aharan's twisted form. Fortunately, the fall was not quite enough to kill a man, but still somewhat deadly…

Yusuf descended quickly and ran to his apprentice's side. The poor boy was out cold, and at first glance already supported a broken leg and a splintered wrist.

It was lucky indeed that the hideout was not too far away. This, Yusuf told himself as he gathered the teen in his arms, would not end well.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The doctor warned them that it could be several days before Aharan awoke. But the moment Yusuf laid him in his bed at the main Den, the boy's eyes fluttered open.

"…Master?"

Yusuf hushed him, and soon Aharan slipped back into unconsciousness.

The _hekim _reappeared in the room after a few more minutes, clutching a pad of paper in his hand.

"How bad is it?" Yusuf asked tentatively, referring to the doctor's prior examination.

The elderly man peered at his notes before replying, "Bad, but not terrible. I doubt he will ever be able to run again, but he should be able to stand."

"Not able to run?" Yusuf repeated, brow furrowing, "What do you mean?"

The doctor shrugged, speaking with an air of crude honesty, "His knee is shattered. I've managed to fix the bone's alignment, but it's going to be an _esik agri _when he gets older." (pain in the ass)

Yusuf stared at him for a moment, then sighed in defeat. "He will never run again?"

"Not without much difficulty, no."

The Assassin nodded dumbly and paid the healer, thanking him for his time. The recruit would be crushed, but Yusuf did not have the heart to lie to him.

It was another day before Aharan came to. Yusuf was not with the incapacitated adolescent nearly as much as he'd intended to be, but he managed to be there when the boy opened his eyes once again.

"Ah, welcome back to the world of the living, _ogrenci._" Yusuf's smile was the first blurry image to come to his vision.

"Master," Aharan said after a moment. His tone was sad.

"How do you feel?"

Aharan only shook his head. For someone who'd just recovered from a small coma, he was awfully coherent.

"I…I failed, master."

It looked as though the apprentice wanted to say more, but he was too fatigued. Yusuf placed his hand on the teen's, forcing him to look up.

"Aharan," He began kindly, "it is true that you failed your mission. And it is also true that I will not be promoting you to Assassin status."

A look of extreme disappointment clouded the boy's face, and his cheeks colored with shame.

"Instead you will become a Bombmaster."

Aharan looked up suddenly, puzzled. "Bombmaster?"

Yusuf's smile returned, "You have a talent with the little devils I've never seen before. And Allah knows I cannot keep track of all the Brotherhood's gunpowder myself."

Realization began to dawn on the eager recruit. The humiliation and despair slowly melted into a look of excitement, "You mean…I'm still an Assassin?"  
>"<em>Evet, arkadashim. <em>And a very welcome one at that."

Aharan's lips split into a grin and he hugged his master with his one good arm, "Thank you, Mentor! Thank you! I will not disappoint you again, I promise!"

Yusuf chuckled, "I know, young one. Only do me a favor, and try not to worship me in public."


	11. XI: In Which Yusuf Presents His Backside

Constantinople, 1498

The scenario had unfolded innocently enough. Yusuf knew he was long overdue with his allies, the Romanis, and they missed him greatly. Their coffers missed him, too. So, though he hadn't planned on it, the Mentor was forced to free up a few hours in his busy schedule to waddle over to the south Imperial district and smile at pretty girls.

His responsibilities were a burden of immeasurable weight sometimes.

But even with the knowledge that he was strictly on business terms, Yusuf's thoughts (and hands) wandered. The gypsy women were delighted to see him, and (once their coin had been replenished) celebrated his arrival with a loud and captivating party. There was no shortage of wine or entertainment, and a larger amount of Assassins than Yusuf remembered seeing at the hideout when he'd called a meeting that morning dropped by to give the Romanis their respects.

It was several hours in the durbar when Yusuf finally began to feel exhaustion. He lay on a mountain of cushions, and a young gypsy with braids in her hair held his head.

"Why, look at you," She chuckled when the tired Assassin hiccupped noisily, "I think someone's stayed up past their bedtime."

Yusuf whined, "But it is such a long walk back home," he pressed the back of his head further into her lap, nestling it snugly, "and I am so comfortable here…"

The girl laughed again, deep and breathy like a female twice her age, "Perhaps if I accompany you the journey will pass by more swiftly."

The Turk agreed and eventually he was brought to his feet. As his companion led him from the camp, waiting patiently for him to drunkenly waved goodbye to his Romani benefactors, Yusuf remarked that the world seemed much wobblier than it usual was.

"For one thing," He explained to the teenager as she half led, half dragged him through the darkened streets, "I am almost certain that when I awoke this morning, buildings did not hover off the ground at _all." _Yusuf cleared his throat before continuing, "It was simply unheard of."

She hummed in concurrence, though the gypsy seemed much more concerned with the road ahead. Her eyes darted about nervously, and she kept leaning around corners as though expecting an ambush at any moment. Which was rather fortunate, because Yusuf would not have detected any thugs with foul intent until they were close enough to embrace fondly, which was what the Turk felt like doing most at the moment.

"Say, Mirela," Yusuf croaked over another hiccup, "why don't we rest here a moment? I'm beginning to feel…odd."

They rounded one more corner, and suddenly the seventeen-year-old's anxiety disappeared. She turned to him with a wide grin and announced, "That sounds like a splendid idea, Yusuf. Here, these men will take you the rest of the way."

Yusuf glanced upwards, trying through his unsteadiness to identify the three shadows approaching them rapidly. Their footsteps clinked like keys in a ring, and their faces were shaded from the moonlight by winged helmets.

When the group was finally close enough, Yusuf's eyes went wide. He might have been drunk, but he'd have to be insane not to recognize the Byzantine crest when he saw it. He reached for his sword, but his arm was entirely too heavy to lift. After a moment's searching, he realized that he'd left his bomb pouch back at the Romani camp when he'd allowed Mirela to remove it. Yusuf was forced to realize he was quite helpless in a fight.

So then the thought occurred to him: why not run? He was a fast free runner; he could easily leave these Byzantine cronies in the dust.

Acting quickly, the Bursan yanked his hand from the gypsy's and spun on his heels, preparing to break into a sprint. However, he did not plan for his feet to slip out from under him and his knees to buckle, launching his face into the ground. For a few moments, the Master Assassin merely sat, his backside sticking high in the air, proudly facing his Templar opponents.

He tried to jump up, but his limbs were full of lead. Eventually everything went numb, and he was effortlessly hoisted onto the back of an insulted Byzantine, who gave him a painful knock on the head for his insolence. In the short seconds before he lapsed into deep slumber, Yusuf comprehended the genius of Mirela's plan: he'd been drugged. And when he awoke, he wouldn't remember a thing.

But most importantly, he wouldn't remember her name.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

When his senses returned, Yusuf was very uncomfortable. He was uncomfortable because his mouth felt fuzzy on the inside, like the skin of a ripe peach. He was also uncomfortable because his arms and legs felt sore and tender, and he felt his hair could use a good washing.

But mostly he was uncomfortable because he had awakened bound to a chair.

"Perfect timing, Assassin," A low, burly voice echoed in his ears, "I was about to douse you in ice water."

"Water," Yusuf muttered, popping the stiff joints in his neck as he blinked hard, "water doesn't sound like a bad idea to me." His throat was rather dry, as it happened.

His captor, a blurry mass of color that was slowly focusing into a man, snickered, "Then water shall be your reward; if you cooperate."

Yusuf yawned and took the time to examine his surroundings. The room was small, perfect for confining a prisoner. However, it was neither the cell nor the dungeon he'd been expecting. It rather appeared like an unused storage room in a palace or some other regal building: the floor was smooth tile, the paint on the walls was relatively fresh, and ornate lamps lit the doorway. In fact, Yusuf could see the chair that was meant to occupy his space was nice and plush- instead, the Templars had replaced with a cruel, cardboard replica.

Before him, the inquisitor was growing restless. The Byzantine was the tall, heavy sort of fellow with an ugly bush for a beard and tiny, almost rodent-like eyes. A long cape was cast around his shoulders and below it he wore bloodred robes with studded armor. He wore a deadly looking hatchet on his belt, ensuring any who spoke with him that he was not to be crossed.

"Listen close, rat," The Templar leaned closer to Yusuf's unimpressed stare, "we shall do this the easy way and the hard way."

The Turk raised an eyebrow, "Is it not the easy way _or _the hard way?" he corrected.

His captor relinquished a toothy grin, "No. I will try the easy way first, though I doubt it will yield much. You Assassins are so hopelessly stubborn. Eventually, I will be forced to use the hard way."

Yusuf remained silent, wondering darkly what the Templar had in store for him.

With a cleared throat, the interrogation began, "I am called 'Kercak'. From what I gather, you are called 'Yusuf'," Kercak paused, his smile widening, "or should I say 'Mentor'?"

_Alahim, _Yusuf thought with a frown, _if the dog expects a bone for stating the obvious this examination will not take long. _

The Templar captain took his perceived speechlessness as permission to proceed, "Now, I have some questions concerning the operations of your Brotherhood-"

"I'm sure you do," Yusuf interrupted drily. He would have extended a hand, had he not been bound at the wrists, "ask away."

Now it was Kercak's turn to arch his brows. However, the larger man pressed on, apparently unconcerned with his captive's bored demeanor.

"How many operatives are there in Galata right now?"

"Fifty-two." Yusuf answered without hesitation.

Kercak's expression slid from surprised to guarded. He tentatively opened his mouth once more:

"Where are they stationed?"

"Two by the Den's main entrance, five on the rooftops, six in the Den's interior hallway," Yusuf mentally counted off on his fingers, "ten in the study, give or take a few, and-oh," He broke himself off, as though suddenly remembering something, "one in the courtyard who is very fond of cheese."

By now the Templar had caught on to his little scheme, and the man growled menacingly.

"Do not play games with me, Yusuf," he began threateningly, "Lies and _sacmalik _will not be tolerated kindly." (bullshit)

"But I do not joke, _efendim,_" Yusuf replied earnestly, "Rammi really is quite fond of cheese."

Yusuf would have laughed out loud had the blow to his face not snapped his head back. Stars burst before his eyes, and Yusuf had to work hard to clear them. The man had a strong arm, whether the slap had been intended to hurt or not.

Once the Master had recovered, Kercak tried again, "Now, how many operatives are there in Galata?"

The Turk snorted, "How do you expect me to remember? They run in and out so often, like little children at the playground!"

It seemed the captain would lose his temper once more, but instead he merely let out an angry yell. Ordinarily Yusuf did not enjoy provoking his enemies, but this one was such an easy mark he could not help himself. The Assassin emitted a brief chuckle, shutting his eyes and leaning back.

"You think this amusing?" The Templar challenged, his voice thick with frustration. To the two guards standing at Yusuf's side, he ordered: "Untie him! Bring him to the _agri oda_!"

As his ties were cut and the Turk was jostled about by his Byzantine bodyguards, Yusuf had to wonder just what the requirements were for an _oda _to be christened 'of pain'. (room)

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The torture room was not nearly as intimidating as Yusuf had expected it to be. When he was younger, he would stay up late with the higher ranked Assassins who would have him and listen to their stories. In the fables, the Templar strongholds were always dungeons of cold, unfeeling stone with rats scurrying around every corner. Screams always bounced off the walls, and the rustling of chains was heavy on the draft.

Instead, the room designed to bring Yusuf to the breaking point was a lovely little den. There was a hearth in the center, clearly in disrepair due to the boards trying unsuccessfully to hide its bronze frame, and a healthy looking stack of rugs and pillows had been shoved in the corner. Even without its lush decorations, the room was still eloquent.

What caught the Turk's attention most was the addition of a long wooden beam in the left corner. It looked almost like a post one would tie a horse's reigns to, so that the animal would not wander off. Yusuf eyed the contraption warily as his guards came to a halt, their arms still locked with his.

Kercak appeared moments later, bearing a long leather strip and a chilling smile. He walked up to Yusuf, and the Assassin felt obliged to stand proud and tall.

"Now," the Templar said, "remove your clothes."

Yusuf raised his eyebrows, "_Beni bagislayin?_" (excuse me)

"Do it."

The Master Assassin shrugged and stepped away from his Byzantine captors. He began with his boots, then proceeded to work off his armor. His sash, along with all the weapons it contained, was painfully absent.

When the flesh of his back showed itself, Kercak grinned hungrily.

"You know," Yusuf drawled, pulling his arms from his sleeves, "most men prefer women, but I can't say I'm surprised."

He smiled to himself at Kercak's enraged snarl, "Shut up, Assassin."

As the Turk cast his robes to the ground, he couldn't help but remark, "I assume you'll let me keep my pants?"

"And why would you assume that?"

"I'd hate to embarrass you all with the hugeness of my _hiyar._" (penis)

That was the comment that drove the unstable Templar over the edge. Yusuf was practically laughing when the large man dragged him to the post and chained his hands to it violently.

"I am going to enjoy this." He whispered angrily into the Turk's ear as he slipped away.

_You're in for it now, Yusuf, _he thought to himself, biting his lip, _laugh while you can. _

He could sense his interrogator uncurling the whip behind him, and Yusuf had never been more paranoid about not being able to turn his head. However, it was a question that came first, not a lash:

"You are going to tell me everything, Yusuf. Starting with your chain of command- who are they and where are they?"

The Bursan snorted disdainfully, "That is for me to know, and you to never find out."

Although he'd been squinting his eyes shut, the blow still stung harshly. Kercak had an extremely forceful arm, and Yusuf briefly wondered if he'd be making it out of this room alive.

"That was just a taste, Tazim. From here on out, I'll be much less gentle."

Yusuf stayed quiet, conserving his strength. He would need it.

"How many Assassins are there outside of Constantinople? When will they return?"

Again, after fifteen seconds of silence, Kercak struck him. This time Yusuf let out a pained gasp, but immediately bit himself. He would not show weakness.

"Do your Assassins have families? Wives, children? If so, where are they kept?"

"Go fuck yourself," Yusuf seethed, outraged that the Templar would even consider such a question, "or would you rather I do it for you?"

His audacity earned him not one, but three lashes. The Bursan could feel the anger in each one, the desire to make him suffer. At the end of the third, Yusuf cried out quietly.

"Five strikes so far, Assassin," Kercak warned, "and I'm just getting warmed up."

The interrogation continued in this way: the captain asking, and Yusuf refusing to answer. Eventually, the bold Tazim ran out of insults and merely took to being silent. The whip's tail felt as though it were on fire, burning lines of flame into his back. After Yusuf lost count of how many lashes he'd received, Kercak yelled for wine. Yusuf had turned weakly, finding this an odd request- until he realized Kercak intended to pour the alcohol on his scarred, mangled flesh.

When the thick, burgundy liquid touched his wounds, Yusuf screamed. He screamed himself hoarse, body convulsing in agony. It would have been less painful simply to roast him over an open blaze.

Finally, the wine stopped. Yusuf was allowed a moment to collapse against his post, lungs heaving and mind delirious. He felt Kercak tense behind him, readying the whip once more, but it was a different voice that spoke:

"_Lutfen, efendim,_" A man, young but wise, "he has had enough. If you continue now, you may kill him." (please, sir)

"So?" Kercak snapped. Yusuf was becoming less and less aware of the Templar's voice, slipping into a dark void. "The less of these dogs prowling the streets, the better."

The smart Byzantine's argument was lost on the anguished Turk as he closed his eyes and let a brief respite overtake him.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

When life returned to him, Yusuf was in the chair again. His back was a white-hot bed of pain, and all the Bursan could do was moan quietly. Water forced its way down his parched throat, and when Yusuf's head bowed faintly, it was splashed over his face.

Yusuf's eyes flew open, but the first thing they saw was Kercak's face, millimeters from his own.

"Oh, not you…" Yusuf groaned, trying desperately to flee back into unconsciousness.

"As I said earlier, Yusuf," The Templar began, "we shall do this the easy way and the hard way. Now, you've seen the easy way."

"Have I?" Yusuf shook himself, "Then what's the hard way? Enlighten me, please."

Kercak only smiled his toothy, sickening smile. It was then Yusuf noted the absence of his two guards and began to look around.

Suddenly, said guards entered with a third party. A woman, only four or five years his junior, was brought in hastily. Her face was tight and her eyes were wide with fear. She looked almost paralyzed.

The Byzantines stood her beside Kercak and backed away. Kercak looked down on the civilian like a wolf on a hunk of meat.

"What is your name, _canim_?" (darling)

She was quite hesitant to answer. Finally, the girl choked out, "T-T-T-Tali."

Yusuf's jaw set the Templar's plan dawned on him. _Orospu igrenc oglu,_ he thought vehemently to himself. (disgusting son of a bitch)

"Tali," Kercak repeated, drawing his hatchet and eyeing it curiously, "Tali, why don't you tell our friend Yusuf how much you want to live?"

"_Onur olmaksizin domuz!" _Yusuf yelled, enraged. He tried to twist forward in his seat, but the pain crippled him and he was forced to sit back. (honorless pig)

"I," Tali swallowed and her eyes filled with tears, "I want to live."

"She has nothing to do with any of this!" The Turk argued.

"And yet she does," Kercak replied cruelly, "for surely you Assassins realize what impact you have on this city? How your actions affect every single one of its inhabitants?"

Yusuf could not answer that, and the infuriated silence between them was punctuated by Tali's muffled sobs.

"Because of your stubbornness, this innocent will die today."

Kercak lifted his hatchet and Tali screamed. Yusuf cried out:

"Stop!"

The Templar hesitated, pleased. Yusuf lowered his gaze.

"I will tell you what you want to hear."

The Captain was grinning again, and motioned for his Byzantine cronies to take Tali away. Her sniveling echoed through the room for the few moments afterward.

"Talk, Yusuf."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

It had been rough. Yusuf lied his way through most of the answers, but each one started with the truth. He couldn't risk an innocent life, it was against the Creed. But he had come dangerously close…

When Kercak was satisfied, he'd left Yusuf to sit and think on his betrayal. However, the Assassin was considering much more than that- he was plotting his escape. Despite his inner turmoil, the Turk's mind was in a very logical sort of mood: he knew the limitations of his now battered body, but he also knew just how far he could push himself over the line before he gave out. The only obstacle now was timing.

An hour or so after the Templar captain exited, Yusuf struck up conversation with his two bodyguards.

"So," he said to the one nearest, clearing his dry voice, "do you like money?"

The guard stared at him, but said nothing.

"I like money," Yusuf confided.

Again, no response.

"If you help me escape, I could give you money."

"Shut up, filth," the Byzantine retorted, "our loyalty cannot be bought."

"It can't?" The other guard asked, intrigued, "I don't know, _efendim. _I like money as well."

"Do you, now?" Yusuf turned to face his other captor with a hopeful smile, "Do you also like women, perchance? I am aware of your master's," he coughed discreetly, "er, preference, but that doesn't mean-"

"_Evet, _Assassin, I am straight."

"_Harika!"_ Yusuf exclaimed, "Well, help me out of this little situation, _arkadashim, _and there will be plenty of both!"

"Sounds good," The guard admitted, unsheathing his blade. His fellow was dumbstruck.

"Maximus, what are you doing?" He protested, "This man is a murderer! He's obviously lying!"

"I am tired of the Byzantines," Maximus scowled, "It is clear that Kostantiniyye belongs to the Ottomans now, but still they whine like children about the unfairness of it all."

"You will really betray the Order for _akce _and _Fahise_?" (whores)

"Yes."

"Good man." Yusuf commended wholeheartedly.

And so when Kercak returned, it was to a sideways chair and one dazed, but sincerely loyal Byzantine.


	12. XII: In Which Yusuf Fights Racism

Constantinople, 1499

"Go! I'll catch up with you!"

The Assassin recruits were hesitant to leave their master, but obeyed his order all the same. Yusuf hoped he had sounded confident, reassuring; but in truth, he had never felt more shaken. Galata was his home, and it greatly disturbed him to see it in such a state.

It did not take him long to disarm and dispatch his opponents. The rioters were angry, disorganized, and sloppy. Still, they were not Templars, and Yusuf would not treat them as such. Though he could not help considering whether or not his sworn enemies had something to do with the uprising.

As soon as he was able, Yusuf turned away from the remainder of the furious Turks and sprinted in the direction his students had fled towards earlier. The air around him was heavy and dense, reeking of smoke. A few of the buildings he passed were burning, but he saw far more torches than flames. Explosions could be heard in the distance, but the most prominent sound was the yelling and chaos of a divided people.

War had come to Kostantiniyye that summer. It began almost in secret: a few missing ships here, a notice there. The fighting had gone well for the Ottomans until that August. It was then that the citizens of Istanbul realized that their new territories in the Mediterranean had come at a high cost.

Over ten Ottoman boats had fallen to Venetian cannons, dragging hundreds of Turks to their deaths. Yusuf almost pitied them, the poor fathers and mothers that were to be told their sons would not be coming home.

But the citizens of the Ottoman Empire had not responded with the grief and sadness they should have. No, they were angry. And to many there was no greater outrage than harboring the very cause of their anguish.

That was why everywhere he turned, Yusuf saw destruction. It was no secret that Galata provided a safe haven for immigrants, and Italians had been settling in it for quite a while. Now, what had once been their greatest sanctuary would become their graves.

He was nearly there, now. The road to the Venetian quarter had been strewn with devastation, but it had not prepared Yusuf for the sight ahead. Roughly thirty men stood gathered at the gate, throwing curses into the streets on the other side. At the beginning of the war, the Janissaries had constructed a flimsy door to keep in any Italians who considered journeying home and selling information in Venice. Now the Ottomans were jumping at the opening, pushing against it with all their might. The metal groaned and snapped, and on the other side the Venetians looked on in pale horror.

There was nothing he could do. Yusuf was forced to watch as the angry mob tore the gate off its hinges and stampeded into the Venetian quarter like a herd of wild animals. They ripped down signs with Italian print, torched Italian merchant stalls and dragged the Europeans into the street. Any Venetian who tried to defend himself was quickly subdued.

Yusuf spotted one of his students in the crowd, grappling with a Turkish rioter. It was a foolish move- if the Assassin drew attention to himself the mob would no doubt devour him.

The Bursan ran forward, tackling his student's adversary. A well-placed knock on the head ensured that he did not rise.

"Mentor!" The Assassin gasped, bowing hastily.

"There are far too many of them," Yusuf replied, glancing about warily at the surrounding pandemonium, "We cannot hope to turn the tide."

"What should we do?" His student asked helplessly.

Yusuf thought for a moment, then answered, "Gather your brothers and do your best to keep the crowd contained to one area. It doesn't have to be for long."

"And where will you go?" the Assassin stopped his Mentor before he could take off.

Yusuf nodded behind him, "Further into the district. Perhaps the _Italyanlar _can be warned while there is still time." (Italians)

He did not wait to see his pupil's reaction. The Master Assassin ran, dodging blazes, citizens and stones alike.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

There were so many faces before him. Yusuf had always known that Kostantiniyye was home to a number of foreigners, but he'd never realized just how large that number was. Now that he stood on a table surrounded by dozens of families, each one staring up at him with fear and shock, he did not know what to say.

"Listen," He swallowed, attempting to wet his dry and empty throat, "You all need to leave. Right now."

"Leave?" A woman near the back of the room repeated, dumbfounded, "Leave and go _where?" _

"What about our shops? Our parents?"

"How will we leave? All the boats are being possessed by the navy!"

The hall erupted into a loud buzzing of hurried conversation, and Yusuf raised his hands for silence. He did not receive it, and instead was forced to shout:

"There is a swarm of angry Turkmen and it is coming this way. If you do not leave, your houses and shops will be destroyed."

Instant uproar. Yusuf sighed, trying to find just one agreeable face in the crowd. Women began to cry, men were arguing noisily with one another and children wailed. Outside the riot was growing closer, and not for the first time Yusuf wished he could somehow pause everything.

A young man's voice pierced the confusion, "This is our land, too!"

Yusuf watched with interest as a boy, no older than seventeen, climbed onto his table to address the community.

"I was born here!" The youth cried, and the Venetians listened. "Galata is my home, too! I say we fight for it!"

"No!" Yusuf's eyes widened and he quickly shoved the young man aside, "You are hopelessly outmatched! If you try to fight this will only end in tragedy!"

"This will end in tragedy either way, _Ottomano," _A deep voice pointed out, "The _bambino _is right." (kid)

A cheer went up from several of the gathering's males, and a large group of them made for the exit.

"Stop!" Yusuf called to them, jumping down from his perch, "You mustn't fight them!"

Suddenly, the Bursan found himself on the ground, vision blurred. He hadn't even acknowledged the fist that slammed against his jaw and sent him flying. It had been a strong punch, one that sullied his mouth with the taste of blood. Yusuf sat up to the exclamation:

"For Galata!"

And then he ducked again, trying to keep his limbs as unexposed as possible as the Italians all ran for the doorway, eager to spill their blood across the dirt.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Hours later, Galata was quiet. Once the mob had the Venetian upstarts in their sights everything went to hell. Yusuf tried to save as many innocent lives as he could, but he knew it was a losing battle. Now, as he sat in the antechamber of the hideout and nursed his wounds, he wondered how far he had stretched the three tenants of his Creed.

The Bursan winced as he applied the disinfectant to the slash on his arm. He had received it trying to protect an Italian child who had only been following his father's example. Yusuf pondered whether or not that little dark haired boy had survived the rest of the struggle. He hoped so.

Hope had not done much for him lately.

Yusuf sighed and leaned back against the yard's stonewall. He let the back of his scalp press into the cold rock, almost soothing the pounding in his head. The air was no longer thick, murky, or red-hot with fire. The sun had set, and now ashes drifted to the ground like snowflakes.

Snow, Yusuf chuckled, in September.

September…he hadn't even noticed the passage of time. In all the havoc and mayhem that had uprooted Constantinople in the past few months, Yusuf had failed to realize that he would be turning thirty-two next week. How much longer could he keep this up, he wondered. How many more decades would slip through his fingers before the people of his city found peace?

The Master was shaken from his thoughts by the shuffling of incoming footsteps. He lowered his gaze to find two of his students carrying a body. Yusuf squinted at the limp mass as it was transported into the Den, moaning.

He couldn't take it anymore. Yusuf stood, brushing himself off and exiting the courtyard. That was the fourteenth body his pupils had brought back. He had instructed them to search through the district and try to save as many as they could, but the Assassin didn't even know how many of those casualties were still breathing.

The Turk wandered the streets of Galata with caution. Although the smoke had settled into a mist and the angry shouts of before had faded to whispers, some of the day's fury still vibrated in the ground.

The village he had grown up in could never have seemed more alien: broken vendor's carts, dusted with ash. Luscious fruit trees burnt to nothing more than dead sticks. A corpse or two lying where it had fallen, and blood was everywhere. It was as though the war had ravaged Istanbul more than any number of Ottoman or Venetian warships put together.

Suddenly, something twitched in Yusuf's field of vision. The Assassin's breath hitched in his throat as a figure in the smog limped closer. He froze, senses flooding with anxiety.

But it was no monster that emerged from the cloud. It was a young woman, struggling under the weight of a large box. She seemed unhurt, but her burden was far too heavy.

"Hey," Yusuf walked up to her quickly and shifted some of the chest into his arms. She accepted his aid gladly, "Let me help you with that."

"_Grazie,_" She breathed, doubling up. The woman was red haired, and her face was a map of childhood freckles. Yusuf concluded that she could not have been older than twenty-five.

"What are you doing outside?" He asked her, concern in his voice. She looked up with startled green eyes. "It's dangerous."

"I'm sorry," She amended, straightening nervously, "My family is boarding the boat for _Venezia, _but I just could not leave this behind."

Yusuf spared the heavy trunk in his hands a second glance, "What is this, exactly, that warrants your life?"

The young woman flushed and smiled anxiously, "Books. Journals, too. They are…keepsakes. They'll remind me of what I had here as a girl."

He remained silent, almost asking what it was she'd had. After a moment, she held her arms out for the box, but a sudden stabbing sensation in his bicep nearly caused him to drop it.

She gasped and caught the chest as it fell. Yusuf groaned and his hand latched onto his muscle, feeling the wet bloom beneath the fabric. The strain had reopened his wound, and he hadn't even noticed.

"You're hurt…" Her statement trailed off, unsure of whether she'd strayed from her business. Yusuf met her curious gaze and found he couldn't hold it.

"You have a boat to catch." He reminded her, looking away.


	13. XIII: In Which Yusuf Buys A Doll

Constantinople, 1500

The turn of the century had come and gone, but the people of Kostantiniyye had not had time to celebrate. Just when the Ottomans paused to think of the future, Venice lashed out, claiming the port of Lepanto for her own.

Even as spring began to roll in and the flowers started to bloom, the Assassins thought only of the conflict that had enveloped their city. Yusuf tried to shake the war from his head and squinted down at the map beneath him. This, however, only reminded him how his eyesight was not what it used to be. He was only thirty-three, and he felt like a man twice that age…

"…They are sure to poke their noses in here eventually," The Grandmaster announced to the students gathered around the table, each sipping their way through a bowl of soup, "When they do, I want as many weapons as possible cleared from view. We are not a threat; the Empire needs to know that."

"Mentor," One of the men spoke up, and Yusuf gave him leave to continue, "Do they come to ask for our assistance?"

Yusuf considered before answering, "I believe so. That, or they wish to know whether we side with them or the Italians."

"Why not aid them?" Another of the Turks suggested, "The Ottomans are as much kin to me as the Assassins."

"_Evet,_ and they tolerate our operations here with little fuss."

"They are not ideal rulers, but they do deserve our help."

Yusuf grimaced. He did not like the way this discussion was headed.

"_Katiller,_" (Assassins) He began with a cleared throat that silenced the room, "It is important to remember for whom we fight. This conflict is between two different nations that we have no connection to-"

"We have plenty connection to Sultan Beyazid."

"-As _Osmanlilar, _yes." (Ottomans) The Bursan continued despite interruption, "But _not _as Assassins. Our only enemies are the Templars, and our job is to prevent their attacks on free will."

"Fine then," A young recruit said, "I shall enlist only as an Ottoman."

"You cannot," Yusuf sighed, "I need you all here. The war has made everything more difficult, and a shortage of manpower would only worsen our situation."

The discussion carried on for another quarter of an hour, but it ended the way every meeting had for the past eleven months: with the Assassins filing out in a disgruntled but obedient manner, and Yusuf sitting at his table wondering if there was anything he hadn't yet said that would help further alienate his pupils.

This time, only one Assassin lagged. An Italian boy by the name of Fabio who had elected to stay behind and help defend his adopted homeland. He had shown great promise and skill, and Yusuf was glad to have an able set of hands on his roster. However, since the beginning of the clash and the infamous riot of Galata, Fabio had been distant and guarded. Yusuf couldn't blame him.

After a short while, the Italian finished his food and leaned back in his chair. He gave a yawn and then commented:

"_Italia _is a mess. Even the pope isn't safe."

"Eh?" Yusuf glanced up, puzzled. He didn't claim to know much about the Roman church, but he believed to the pope to be an important, nearly untouchable figure.

Fabio elaborated, "Just last December an attempt was made on his life. They say Alexander still hasn't recovered, and it is possible he never will."

"Someone tried to kill the pope?" Yusuf repeated slowly.

The younger man seemed too tired to notice his mentor's loose grasp on the concept, "Some _ragazzo pazzo. _Calls himself 'Ezio Auditore da Firenze'. A freak full of _merda _if you ask me."

"Wait, wait," Yusuf rolled up his map and turned to the Italian with sudden interest, "Say that name again."

Fabio raised his eyebrows, "Ezio Auditore da Firenze?"

"_Evet,_" Yusuf frowned and combed his beard, "I've heard of him before…"

Fabio waited a few moments for the master's memory to resurface, but it was clear Yusuf was not going to have a revelation any time soon. The other Assassin climbed to his feet and waddled out the door, leaving his teacher alone in the meeting room that had suddenly become maddeningly silent.

Why did that name seem so familiar?

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The spring breeze was so pleasant on his skin after the biting gusts of winter. Yusuf lifted his chin and allowed his lids to droop shut as the wind played with his hair and picked at the tips of his robes. It carried with it the scents of dew and pollen, both things that hearkened way back for the Bursan Assassin. If he took a deep breath, Yusuf could also detect smoke in the air, which only added to his good mood. Yusuf had many fond memories involving smoke…

An agreeable demeanor and fine weather had lessened the boredom of Yusuf's tasks somewhat, but there was still much to be done. The Turk was making his rounds of Istanbul's faction heads while they were still at large. Ottoman patrols had been to the docks district so far, and Yusuf was aware they were headed to the Romanis next. Ever since the surprise attack in the Ionian Sea, Beyazid had been wary of spies in his midst. It was only fair to assume the Assassins were the next suspects in his line up.

Yusuf would have happily strolled on right through the South Imperial district if the crazed shout of a herald had not caught his attention:

"Good people of Constantinople, now is the time to repent! Now is the time to return to the true path and remove these treacherous heathens from our city!"

Curiosity beckoned, and Yusuf wandered closer to the old man with a set of wary eyes.

"The Palaologos have been cast aside, watching with anguish as the heretics sit upon their throne," the herald proclaimed, almost chasing after listeners who would not spare him a second glance, "but no longer! God has shown his displeasure with that blasphemer, Beyazid, and now it falls to us to complete his plan. Revolt! Return to Byzantium!"

Yusuf couldn't help but feel skeptical of the crier's call to action. Surely the Templars were not pigheaded enough to shove their need for world domination straight under the Sultan's nose, and especially not when he was at his most sensitive.

The Bursan approached the herald with caution, "How much do they pay you to spread that _sacmalik, yilan?" _(bullshit) (snake)

He paused, almost angered at Yusuf's accusation that he accepted _akce _in exchange for his loyalty, "It is not lies I spread, but the purest form of truth! The Constantine Empire must be restored!"

"Don't you think you've done enough, _dostum?" _(friend)

Yusuf turned, surprised another man would intervene. It was then he noticed the ring that the newcomer bore on his finger. Though it was faint, Yusuf new a Templar cross when he saw one.

"No! No, certainly not. I cannot bring myself to do anything before the people have heard my message."

Yusuf snorted, but backed away. The Templar only continued to speak softly to the Byzantine-radical, which greatly troubled the Master Assassin.

Until suddenly understanding lit Yusuf's eyes like two full moons. The herald was not some thug hired by Templars to abuse the populace's ears; he was some nutjob who actually believed that the Byzantines were the rightful rulers of Istanbul. The Templars had approached to try to silence him because, like the Assassins, they did not want the Sultan staring down at the war and the offending faction at the same time.

Now that he grasped what was happening, Yusuf took to the scene with renewed interest, almost grinning as the old man flung the Templar's coinpouch to the ground.

"Imbecile!" He yelled in outrage, "You think coin can silence the truth?"

"I am trying to help you, _aptal!_" (idiot) the Templar complained through gritted teeth, "if the Janissaries hear this nonsense what good will your voice do?"

"Ha!" The fool mocked, "I do not fear them! When Byzantium returns, they will have no more power than monkeys in soldiers' garb!"

Immediately, Yusuf rotated on his heels and dashed down the street. It did not take long for him to find the closest Ottoman patrol.

"Officers!" He panted, feigning exhaustion, "There's a man down this road. He needs your help!"

Either luck was finally on his side or the Janissaries were incredibly bored that day, but they believed Yusuf and set in the direction he'd indicated in a great hurry. Yusuf straightened and chuckled as the herald's enraged shouts bounced from the walls of the district. He may be getting old, but the Turk still enjoyed a good prank…

-0-0-0-0-0-

Hours later, a slightly fatigued Master Assassin was making his way home through the crowded Grand Bazaar. The day's investigations had been troubling; while the Romanis were in adequate shape, they were not accepting commissions at this time, which meant the Assassins would have to do without their closest allies for a while. The thieves were all but shut down and adamantly refused to become involved with any faction as notorious as Yusuf's, and promptly denied him access to their hideout. Istanbul's mercenaries were more forgiving, but many of their members had been called off to fight at sea.

Despite the fair weather and relaxing hum of the market, Yusuf still felt sour. One year seemed enough to him. Why did wars always drag out for so long? And even when the Ottomans held the upper hand (which was often), life wasn't easy. The Turk found himself dreaming of the day the fighting would stop.

Ironically, he thought, so that his own battles would be less difficult to conduct.

Yusuf proceeded through the bazaar, paying the vendors who cried at him little heed as he trudged along. It was not until he exited the souk's great tunnel that something caught his interest.

A bored-looking young man sat at his stall holding a bundle of something that resembled straw in his arms. His hair was thick, dark, and curly, ensnaring his head like a shrub. He had a pleasant enough face though, set with light brown eyes and a handsome nose. Beside his stool stood a dozen or so bushels of wheat.

"_Bugday,_" (wheat) the man announced in a dead tone of voice, "Anyone interested?"

The scene struck Yusuf as odd. Most products sold in the Bazaar were of consumer value: purses, clothing, food, weapons, spices, et cetera. Who would come to the Grand Market to buy wheat? And more importantly, who'd be stupid enough to sit and try to sell it?

For the second time that day, Yusuf gave in to his curious nature and shuffled over.

"Excuse me, _effendim,_" He cleared his throat and leaned casually against the wood table that composed the stall. The wheat merchant's unimpressed stare drifted to him. "Do you get much business here?"

The young man paused before answering, "No, not exactly. Though I have an abundance of scorners."

"People scorn you for selling _bugday?" _

He shook his head, "It's a long story."

Yusuf smiled and adjusted his weight against the table, "I am a troubled man as well, _effendim. _Perhaps hearing your problems will help me forget mine for a few moments, _evet?_"

The seller nodded in agreement and began his tale with a sigh, "I left Jerusalem for_ Turkiye _seven months ago. When I arrived, I did not speak the native language well."

The Bursan hummed in understanding while his companion hesitated, reliving a distant memory.

"I'd brought with me lots of wheat and grain, because I'd heard that conditions here were rough and…I suppose I wanted to help. Unfortunately, I did not know the Turkish word for 'wheat', and so I stupidly attempted to hock my wares using my home's name for them."

"And what would that be?"

"_Dagan._" He replied, "_dagan, _for wheat."

"I suppose it did not do you much good?"

"No, it did not. My customers misunderstood, and began to call me '_Dogan', _thinking it was my name I was informing them of. They mocked me for my ignorance of their language, called me the 'Dogan seller'."

"Ah," Yusuf noted, "You know, Dogan is a popular name. There is nothing wrong with it."

"_Evet,_" Dogan muttered, "but it is not _my _name. How would you like to be called for your profession?"

Yusuf laughed and gave the younger man a pat on the shoulder, "You're a smart kid, Dogan. But if you do not get much business, why do you still sell wheat?"

Dogan shrugged, "There are some women who come daily to buy it. I believe they use it to bake bread for their families, since they cannot afford fine flour. And it makes a nice toy for children with spare _akce._"

"A toy, eh?" Yusuf raised his brows, then began to smile, "I know a little man who could use a good toy."

"You'd take some, then?" Dogan asked hopefully, his blank expression turning light.

"_Kesinlikle,_" (certainly) The Assassin agreed and soundly placed a small bag of coins on the table, "Two bushels and a doll, please."

Dogan hastily readied the wheat for purchase and handed it to his customer, a grateful grin on his lips.

"_Elef todot, khaveri. _A thousand gratitudes upon you, friend."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Time went on, but still the situation did not grow simpler. News of the war with Venice was scarce, and it wasn't always good. Although Beyazid had concluded his investigations for now, Yusuf found it safe to assume that the Sultan's troops would be visiting many more times before the conflict's end.

However, Yusuf made a discovery that helped lightened the burden: Dogan. The Jerusalemite was friendly, caring, and most of all, wise. The Assassin came to him often, if not to enjoy his company then to share predicaments and solutions.

It very much pleased the Master when Dogan answered the problem that had plagued him for months: how to convince his students to stay neutral in the war.

"If they want to join the Ottomans, let them," The wheat vendor advised, not even looking up from the new dolls he was stuffing with straw, "only insist that they turn over their hookblades and bombs first. If they go to fight the Italians, they do not go as Assassins."

When Yusuf first informed the young man of his occupation, he'd expected the vendor to shun him, possibly even turn him over to the authorities. Once again, Yusuf was relieved to see that Dogan accepted him anyway, adding that he'd guessed Yusuf's line of work days ago.

The wheat Yusuf was buying from his new friend did not go to waste, either. Zavi's four-year-old son (could the boy be four already? _Alahim, _he was an infant yesterday!) found an endless number of uses for the stuff, from fashioning false weapons from it to sneaking it into his parents' food, to simply tearing the great stalks apart and spreading their pieces about like confetti. It amused Yusuf to watch the child play, and every evening the light-eyed boy would run up to _Amca _Yusuf and ask if he'd brought home any toys. (uncle)

Later that year, Yusuf approached Dogan and asked if he'd be interested in joining the Assassins. The wheat vendor had refused at first, claiming himself to be a peaceful man who only wished to speculate upon the world, not to change it.

But as time went on it became hard to deny that the charming Mentor had grown on the Jerusalemite. And after a few weeks nudging, Dogan finally agreed to consider the request.

Yusuf was glad to have such an open advisor at hand, and even though the battles in the Ionian Sea still raged on, the Bursan was able to fall into some lapse of tranquility.


	14. XIV: In Which Yusuf Saves The Day

Constantinople, 1501

Two lifeless and glassy eyes stared up at him from the ground. Though the irises were of a pleasant hue that Yusuf would have previously found endearing, this appeared to be one of those cases where death did not beautify the deceased. In fact, the young man's frozen expression of shock did little to stir any agreeable emotion within the Turk.

"His name was Remzi Otot, and he was twenty-four years old." Dogan read from his booklet, skimming idly through the pages for more information. "From what we can tell, he was killed in this area either early this morning or late last night."

The corpse itself was ordinary, but the wound at the base of the neck very much intrigued the Master Assassin.

"Dogan," Yusuf murmured, bending down and tracing Remzi's wound with a tentative finger, "What do you make of this?"

His apprentice put aside his notes and joined him in the street's dirt, squinting hard at the dead man.

"A clean slice through the throat."

"_Evet,_" Yusuf nodded, "but not with just any weapon. This is the mark of a hidden blade."

Dogan frowned, "But this _zavalli _was nothing to us. He did not owe anything, he was neutral in the matter of the Templars, and he did not have any connections to our allies." (poor bastard)

"That is what worries me," Yusuf confided, tugging at his beard as he studied the surgical precision of the injury, so perfectly inflicted, "This is a very particular job."

"I hate to disturb you boys," Both Assassins glanced up as the old woman approached, kneading her fingers anxiously, "but I would rather put the man to rest as soon as possible. His presence disturbs me."

"Of course, _kadinim,_" (my lady) Yusuf stood immediately and bowed his head to his elder. She relaxed visibly and turned, shambling off towards her house.

The murder had been brought to the Turk's attention only an hour ago, when his greatest concern was breakfast. Luckily for the Assassin and his friend, the Bayezid street was mostly deserted, and the foggy weather would make it difficult for any to distinguish the two men as they conducted their investigation.

After scouring the rest of the corpse for clues (which there were not many of), Yusuf and Dogan entered the old woman's home seeking an interview. It was outside her residence that the killing took place, and her statement appeared a good place to start.

"I thought you might come by," Was the greeting they received at her door. The lady sighed, but allowed the ancient wooden device to creak open, "Come in, then. You must have questions."

She introduced herself as Akane, and she lived simply. The three sat around a small table and sipped hot tea, which Yusuf was immensely grateful for; otherwise he would have fallen asleep the moment she started talking. Dogan made most of the inquiries, as the man was of a studious mind, and Akane answered as best she could.

Through their discussion, the Assassins learned that no one in the neighborhood had much love for Remzi. Though just as low class as the rest of them, Remzi was snide, boisterous, and rude. He was quick to criticize, but sluggish to accept an opinion that was not his own.

"Frankly it does not surprise me that the boy found himself on the wrong end of a blade," Akane confessed, dipping a small wafer into her steaming drink, "He never knew when to shut up."

Suddenly, Akane paused. She turned in her seat towards the hallway and called, "It's alright, Demet. These are some friends of mine."

At first, nothing happened. Then, slowly, Yusuf perceived the silhouette of a child tiptoeing its way into the room. The young girl eventually stepped into the light, revealing a pale face pinched with distrust.

"They don't look like your friends." Demet accused in a voice barely above a whisper. Yusuf and Dogan exchanged glances and couldn't help but admire the little one's intellect.

"They are new friends," Akane said soothingly and beckoned the girl to her arms. She soon came, though reluctantly.

"Who is this?" Yusuf asked, leaning forward in his chair.

"My granddaughter, Demet," The old woman explained, massaging the light haired child's back with her thumb as she spoke. "Since the passing of her parents she's been…" Akane hesitated, searching for the right word. "Shy."

"Ah," Yusuf nodded in understanding. He eyed Demet with interest, and the small one shrunk beneath his gaze, folding into her grandmother's shadow. She couldn't have been older than Zavi's son, who was nearing his fifth birthday, but there was a haunted edge in her countenance that informed Yusuf this girl had witnessed things that no child should.

After Demet's appearance the interview came to a sort of halt, and they left not long in following. Dogan thanked the old woman for her time, and the two of them set off for the Galata hideout, hoping to be back before anyone figured they were gone.

However, even as Yusuf sat as his desk and picked at the many, many reports that battled each other for his attention, the murder distracted him. Overwhelming evidence supported the claim that although Remzi was an idiot and probably a cheat, he was innocent in the eyes of the Creed. And yet he was very distinctly killed by an Assassin.

"Perhaps it was some thug who picked a hidden blade off the streets," Dogan had offered, "the mechanism is simple enough to work, and quite effective."

Yusuf had accepted this explanation, but it still bothered him. It is one thing to possess a hidden blade, and another entirely to know how to use it. Whoever had killed that man knew how to handle an Assassin's weapon, as shown by the precision of the cut.

To help relieve that irritating itch, the Master Assassin called all of his recruits together in the main chamber of the hideout. Once they were settled, Yusuf presented the situation to the group, wondering if perhaps one of them had caught Remzi in one of his less honorable moods and decided to do the world a favor. His students easily denied touching the man, except one.

One of the lower ranked Assassins looked away while the others clarified their alibis. Yusuf closed in on this, confronting the nervous Assassin immediately. But, with a little more digging, that soon came to a dead end as well. The recruit merely had an upset stomach, and assured Yusuf that he had not slaughtered any innocents recently. The whole ordeal was embarrassing and honestly, awkward.

The next few days brought the Mentor no solace. Remzi's killer was not found, and none of the Assassins seemed to have any reason to have done the deed themselves. Further more, no one was missing a hidden blade and no one had been for years: the devices were constructed at the blacksmith down the road, then brought to the Galata Den where they were given over to the men and/or women who needed them. There was little room for malfunction in that system.

And so Yusuf was forced to put the case to the side for a while, until one afternoon Dogan burst into the master's office, proclaiming that another victim had been found.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Dogan and Yusuf had proceeded to the Grand Bazaar as quickly as they could, but it was to no avail. By the time the two makeshift detectives arrived, the scene of the crime was already swarming with Ottoman guards.

Luckily, the body was discovered at the exit of the market's great tunnel, so there was plenty of room for everyone. However, this also made it easier for the Ottomans to block off the bazaar's opening and deny the Assassins entrance.

Yusuf approached the barricade of three men with impatience.

"Move along, _yurttas_." (citizen) One of the soldiers said gruffly, "Nothing here for you."

"Not for me, perhaps," Yusuf inhaled and reached into his pocket, "but there's fifty _akce _in it for a smart, loyal gentleman like yourself. How about a peek, eh?"

The guard considered for a moment. Then he took the pouch of coins from Yusuf's hand and turned to gesture to an unseen figure behind him. He waited, then nodded.

To Yusuf, he replied, "Fifteen minutes."

The Assassins shuffled into the bazaar gratefully and melded into what was left of the crowd. An abandoned merchant's cart was backed against the wall, but its attendant was in a much less functional state. A well-dressed man, late thirties perhaps, lay crumpled on the ground, the area around his neck slick with blood. The slit in his throat was barely visible beneath the bush of hair that was his beard, and for some reason that made Yusuf feel uneasy.

"I recognize this one," Dogan whispered into his teacher's ear, causing him to turn, "A pottery seller from Bursa. Used to own the stall next to mine."

"Had he many enemies?" Yusuf asked drily, lids lowering, "It's a dangerous business, the vending of pots."

Dogan was never given a chance to answer, as the two were suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a pissed-off Janissary.

"What are they doing here?" The high ranking Ottoman accused the nearest official on site, stabbing a finger in Yusuf's direction, "You said the market had been closed."

The previously bribed guard's dampened with sweat and he was hesitant in his answer, "They have special permission, _effendim. _I was told nothing more than that."

The Janissary paused, staring the guard down with the harshest of gazes. Slowly, he peeled himself from his spot and marched over to Yusuf with all the rage of a man whose day had been rudely disrupted.

He seemed about to open his mouth, but then shut it immediately. When the Janissary spoke again, it was with much distrust, "Assassin."

"Referring to me, then." Yusuf acknowledged his claim with a calm voice, but his limbs were tense. This could easily get ugly.

The Ottoman snorted, then grew more serious. He lowered his tone and leaned closer to the Mentor. "Getting a bit rowdy, aren't we? This is the second man found dead with a hidden blade shoved down his throat."

"That is the very reason I'm here, _effendim._" Yusuf replied gravely, "someone has been framing my Order and I would like to know who."

Again, the Janissary seemed unconvinced. "You are on dangerous ground, _suikastci._ Give me any reason at all, and I will have you slain on the spot." (Assassin)

"I'm sure you will. But right now I would greatly appreciate being able to examine our friend here."

The soldier thought the matter over, folding his arms and adjusting his mask. He watched the Assassins for a good, long while before finally replying:

"Three minutes, then I want you out of here."

Yusuf nodded firmly and made his way to the dead man. The Janissary followed, hovering above them like a disapproving mother.

"Look, Yusuf," Dogan muttered, elbowing the older Turk. He indicated flecks of a foreign substance clinging to the merchant's beard.

Yusuf picked at the spots and placed them in his palm. After a few moments of scrutiny, he announced them to be bits of rust.

"Rust?" Dogan repeated, frowning.

"It must have come from the blade," Yusuf explained, "Whoever our killer is apparently isn't taking good care of it."

Further examination revealed that this cut was not as clean as the last had been. Instead of a straight edge, this slash zigzagged across the jugular, as though the murderer's hand had been shaking.

"Interesting," Dogan murmured, his thumb brushing his chin. He then pulled at folds in the pot vender's cloak, only to gasp in surprise.

"What is it?" Yusuf asked, fingers pulling at the same piece of fabric.

"Look," Dogan insisted, smoothing the cloth as flat as he could. Yusuf watched a hand print appeared, very faintly outlined in dust. "The dust came from the clay on the merchandise."

"If this sketch is accurate," Yusuf said as he compared his palm and the pressed one, "then the killer we are looking for has very small hands indeed."

"Or is a woman." Dogan suggested.

They were booted unceremoniously from the crime scene almost immediately after their breakthrough, but the two Assassins had been given much evidence to work with now.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

While his Assassins were clearly not behind the murders, Yusuf found they could still be very helpful in solving them. As soon as he'd returned to Galata, he'd written up a list of suspects. Since there was little to no connection between the victims, Dogan and Yusuf had agreed that the killer must be a thug who'd managed to pick up an antique hidden blade off the black market (which, after some quick shopping, Yusuf was alarmed to find they carried).

Several thieves were brought in to the hideout from the Imperial Districts, and each had a history with the Assassins to take into consideration.

The first to be tossed into Yusuf's office was a young woman with short, brightly colored hair. She glared at the Master Assassin with a deep loathing and was short with his questions.

"Name?"

"Ozlem."

"Why did you kill Remzi and the pot merchant?"

"I didn't," The thief retorted, "I don't even know who you are talking about. Besides, I'm a thief, not a psychopath. I don't kill people."

Yusuf raised an eyebrow, "Your file states that you've killed several. Five guards, two citizens, and a fellow thief _last month." _

Ozlem's hard exterior flinched for a second and she shifted in her seat. "So maybe I did those ones in. You don't have any proof."

The Bursan could tell this conversation was not going to end well. "I can't help but notice you have a hidden blade with you. Care to divulge where you got that?"

She cleared her throat and raised the weapon on her arm to eye level. Yusuf's suspicions were confirmed- the blade was at least thirty years old, and despite a deep cleaning, rust still clung to its surface.

"I found it." Ozlem admitted and lifted her chin haughtily. "Want to make something of it?"

_This interview will not go far with her challenging every word I say, _Yusuf thought irritably.

"You use it often?"

"As I said earlier," the thief snapped, "I don't kill people. But it is handy."

After a few more questions, half of which she dodged, Yusuf let the young urchin out. He'd had doubts at the beginning, but now the Bursan was quite convinced that Ozlem did not have brains to kill two people in the same week without being caught.

The second person brought in was, to Yusuf's chagrin, a midget. He was a man of four feet, and his hands fit the print taken perfectly. His size made him very successful as a thug, and like Ozlem he had a certain degree of pride that Yusuf was careful not to tread on.

"So, Purdil," He began, coughing discreetly into his fist, "give me a good reason why I shouldn't blame you for the deaths of two innocents."

Purdil scowled, "You have no proof."

"Actually, a palm print was found on one of the body's that matches yours exactly. In addition, the men were killed with an antique hidden blade which, I understand, you are in possession of."

The little thief did not deny this. He repeated that he was not at all guilty in the crimes, and stayed silent after that. Despite Yusuf's continued claims that Purdil was responsible, there were no repercussions at the end of the talk. When the midget exited the office, Yusuf was forced to admit that Purdil was blameless simply because he had looked him in the eye and told him so.

The rest of that afternoon's interviews were even less successful. Outside of Ozlem and another thug, Nasad (who denied everything Yusuf said, including, to the Assassin's amusement, 'your name is Nasad'), Yusuf had absolutely no one to work with. The killer could have been any of them, and at the same time it could have been none of them.

Yusuf related these troubles to Dogan as they left the hideout that evening. The two walked the streets simply for the pleasure (and slightly because Yusuf could no longer sit in his desk without being overcome by a violent urge to slam his forehead against it) of the cooling air. Dogan's mind held a few options, but in reality the two had very little to go on. Inevitably, they lapsed into silence.

Until a tortured scream sounded from further up the road.

The two Assassins leapt into action, drawing close to an alleyway just as a hooded figure disappeared down the street, its white cloak billowing as it ran. Yusuf prepared to chase it, but was stopped by a call from his friend. The degree of seriousness in Dogan's voice convinced the Turk that he would have to let this one get away.

Dogan sat in the dirt of the alley with a young Romani gathered in his arms. She was trembling terribly.

Yusuf felt his heart twist in his chest at the helpless look she gave them. The woman's neck was only half cut, but the wound in her stomach was more than enough to finish her. While she had struggled, this Romani would not be making it home.

"Listen," Yusuf spoke softly, his hand gripping her shoulders tightly. She turned to him, painted eyes wide and lips bloodied. "Can you tell us who did this to you?"

The Romani swallowed with difficulty and shook her head. A tear dropped down her cheek when she made the effort to talk.

"M…M-m-my…"

She sighed and her eyelids suddenly drooped. Her viselike grip on Dogan's robes slackened.

"Hey!" Yusuf shook her and her mind returned.

"…My…M-m-my…"

"What? Your what?" The Bursan pressed hurriedly.

"Yusuf!" Dogan hissed, appalled at his friend's insensitivity.

"…Sister," The Romani croaked. The ink on her face was hopelessly blotted from her tears. "My sister."

Dogan comforted the young woman as she abruptly passed from the world, growing stiff in his arms.

Yusuf couldn't believe what a fool he'd been. Why hadn't he considered the Romanis? It would be only too easy for a gypsy to pluck a hidden blade off an Assassin and use it for her own, personal grievances! And naturally no one would hear of the theft, because the Assassin would be too embarrassed to name his blade's last location as the Romani camp.

But as the two made their way back home, Yusuf couldn't help wondering: why would she steal a blade so old? Why not pick a more recent recruit? Were his students better trained than he thought or just not worth the effort of seducing? There were a number of explanations, from an old inheritance to simply adoring objects of antiquity. However, none of them truly sat right with the Mentor…

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The next morning, Yusuf's questions remained just as unanswered. For want of a change in scenery, he contemplated the three victims in the lounge (much to his students' annoyance) instead of his office. Now it wasn't a lack of suspects that plagued him, it was a multitude.

There was another factor that Yusuf hadn't taken into mind: had the killer identified them? When Yusuf and Dogan had stumbled upon the dying Romani, a cloaked figure had fled the scene. If the murderer did indeed see their faces, would she, or he, come to them? Or will the assassin wait until Yusuf's back is turned to plunge his own hidden blade into it?

Yusuf groaned. He needed to speak with his advisor.

An Assassin recruit traipsed into the breakroom only to find her Mentor sprawled out on a load of cushions and attempt to traipse back out at high speed. But it was no use, as Yusuf stopped her and demanded Dogan's location.

"He didn't tell you?" She seemed puzzled, "He went to go visit the Romanis hours ago."

Yusuf bolted upright, eyes popping from his head. "He went _where?" _

"He's been at their camp since early this morning," The recruit went on, fingering her hair nervously, "He said something about paying his respects for last night?"

"_Ben inanmiyorum!" _(I don't believe it) Yusuf swore as he scrambled to his feet. He was out the door before his recruit could speak another word.

He hardly remembered anything of the trip to the south Imperial district- only that it baffled him how his wisest advisor could be such an idiot. Had he no thought for his own safety? Any of the Romanis could be the murderer, and if they'd recognized him he was done for!

Such thoughts only hastened Yusuf's journey and he arrived at the Romani encampment in record time. He practically broke down the enclosure's door and burst into the camp, gasping for breath.

The head gypsy approached him swiftly, worry creasing her brows, "Yusuf! What has happened, _kardeshim_?" (brother)

"Dogan," Yusuf rasped, doubling up with his hands on his knees, "When…last see…Dogan?"

"He left here some time ago," The Romani replied with an amount of confusion, "Said he'd be back shortly…"

"Was he alone?"

She thought for a moment, then answered.

"No. An old woman came to fetch him."

Yusuf stopped breathing. Old woman?

And suddenly he realized he'd been running in the wrong direction.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

When Dogan awoke it was to many sensations and very few of them pleasant. His head hurt something awful, his wrists were sore (and bound, he suspected), and his joints burned. Aside from those, there was a faint smell of tea in the air.

Cold fingers stroked his cheeks, and the Assassin shuddered involuntarily. Slowly, he blinked his gummy eyes open.

"Wake up, wake up," a brittle voice sang, shaky as though it was on the verge of laughter, "I am waiting."

That voice was eerily familiar. When his vision cleared, Dogan couldn't help the blood flushing from his cheeks as he realized just how wrong he and Yusuf had been.

"A-Akane?"

The old woman had changed drastically since he'd last seen her. Though her clothes remained the same, her face had morphed. Last week her eyes had held a kind of softness that all grandmothers possessed. Now they were big black marbles, the wrinkles at their edges curving upward to reveal insect-like orbs.

"_Evet, evet,_" She chuckled, "It's been fun watching you and your friend follow me about, but I'm too old for that sort of attention."

Dogan was obtaining a better feeling of his surroundings. He was propped against a wall, his hands were securely tied behind him, and Akane's face was inches from his. Nevertheless, he took a breath and spoke.

"You killed all those people? Even the Romani?"

Akane nodded, and her grin widened.

Dogan was at a loss, "Why? How?"

"Why don't I show you?" The click of a hidden blade was all too familiar, but the model attached to her arm differed greatly from Dogan's own. Rust collected at the gears that let the knife slide, and this bracer was decorated with designs no longer in use amongst modern Assassins.

"It's a shame Yusuf Tazim wasn't with you," Akane lamented softly, "But I'm sure with your death he'll be even more determined to find me. Truth be told, that's the only reason I kept killing."

"You kept killing because you wanted Yusuf to find you?" Dogan asked.

"No," Akane corrected sharply, "I kept killing because _it was fun." _

Dogan swallowed again and tried to keep the disgust from filling him.

Akane continued, "Remzi was an idiot. I couldn't take his abuses any longer, and no one was too sorry to see him go."

"What of that man in the market?"

"A cheat," Akane scoffed, "I was doing Istanbul a favor."

"Why the Romani, then? Why that poor girl?"

"Don't you see?" The old woman growled, waving her hidden blade around to express her frustration. Dogan hissed as its tip grazed his throat. "There is no fun to murder when no one cares! If I struck down someone whose death would inspire grief, more people would react! That's the point of the game."

Dogan was finally beginning to understand: the woman had lost her mind. When her blade dipped into Remzi's blood it started something that couldn't be stopped. Now Dogan was truly wondering if he'd make it out of this scenario alive.

"Where did you get that hidden blade?" He wondered, buying as much time as possible. Who knew, maybe he could persuade Akane to give up. She was insane, after all.

"My husband's," Akane sniffed and looked away, distant emotion making her eyes less menacing for a moment, "when he died four years ago and left me alone, no one cared. Not even Ishak. If I hadn't arranged for Demet to live with me, I don't know what I should have done…"

"What do you mean, 'arranged' for Demet to live with you?"

"My daughter chose a stupid husband," Akane smiled, a thin and wiry grimace, "He was prone to fits of drunkenness. It was easy to convince him to do away with that pesky nag of a wife he had and cast away his child."

For the third time, Dogan felt a deep sense of abhorrence for the being in front of him. Was there any part of her that was still human?

"You've been a good listener," The old woman credited him as her eyes grew large and evil again, "but I'm afraid you have to go now. I am done waiting."

And that's when the room's door was brutally introduced to the ground.

Akane jumped up and whirled around with incredible grace for a thing her age.

"Who's there?" She cried, hidden blade brought up in an offensive stance.

"Dogan!" A man's voice yelled angrily, "You'd better be in here, because I am _not _running across Kostantiniyye three times in one morning!"

"Yusuf!" The name brought Dogan immeasurable relief and his lips split into a grin.

Indeed, the Turk stood proudly in the center of the room, Turkish Kajil drawn and eager to kick ass. Yusuf took a moment to catch his breath before leveling said weapon at the old woman.

"Akane!" She hissed like a snake being threatened, "It's a good game you've played, _kadinim! _But if you don't mind, I'd like my advisor back."

Akane shook her head violently, "Too much, too much! Can't let either of you leave now!"

Yusuf remained unimpressed, "Nice to see your sense of hospitality hasn't changed."

"Yusuf, be careful!" Dogan warned, struggling against his bonds, "She's gone mad!"

Akane turned suddenly and brought her blade to Dogan's neck. He jerked about in an effort to get free, but it was clear Akane would not allow him any room.

"I'm going to kill him!" She laughed or cried, her voice being a high-pitched wheeze made it difficult to tell the difference. "Him, then you!"

"Well, that's not much of an incentive to stay put." Yusuf's chest was aglow with the triumph of guessing their killer's identity correctly, but he had to admit this was a form a stalemate. He didn't want to hurt the old woman, but it was becoming pretty clear that she'd gone crazy and wouldn't appeal to any form of reason. The Master Assassin was readying a throwing knife when the ordeal was interrupted by a soft question:

"_Buyukanne?_" (grandmother)

For a split second, Akane returned to normal. Demet stepped into the room with eyes wide, but it was only curiosity they displayed.

"_Buyukanne, _what are you doing?"

Akane smiled, "I am playing a game with my friends, _sevgilim._" (darling)

Demet shook her head. "No, _Buyukanne._ They are not your friends."

Moving as fast as he could, Yusuf used the distraction to tackle Akane to the ground and pin her armed hand away from her. There was a terrible snapping sound, like the cracking of a bone, and Akane shrieked loudly. But the entire situation was resolved within a few minutes, when the old woman had slipped into a state of shock caused by Yusuf's accidental fracturing of her left ulna.

He didn't feel that sorry.

As soon as he was able, Yusuf crawled forward and sliced the ropes at Dogan's wrists, allowing him a few moments to flex his tight muscles.

"Demet," The Master Assassin called hoarsely. The girl approached obediently.

"_Lutfen,_" (listen) Yusuf sighed and gave the kid a pat on the back, "I'm sorry that had to happen."

"It's fine," She replied with uncanny maturity, "I've been waiting for someone to notice that my grandmother is…strange."

"Has she ever hurt you?" Dogan asked.

Both Assassins realized they already knew that answer to that question. Nevertheless, Demet nodded. As the two climbed to their feet and prepared to set out, it occurred to them that the girl had no where to go.

Before Yusuf could suggest anything, Dogan spoke up.

"Demet, would you like to come home with us?"

The light-haired child seemed intrigued, "Where do you live?"

"Galata," Dogan replied with a smile, "We will take good care of you there."

"Not a bad idea," Yusuf grinned, "After all, I know a certain little boy who could use a playmate."

Demet agreed wholeheartedly, and for the first time since her mother's death, she giggled.

It did not take long for Yusuf to deposit Akane at the closest Janissary outpost, and though Demet was somewhat distressed by the thought of never seeing her grandmother again, she was too enticed by the freedom of leaving her prison of a home to argue much. On their way to Galata, the group of three decided to stop for a quick snack of fried pastries, which they brought back to the Den with them. The Assassins were dumbfounded to see their master conversing with a seven-year-old girl and munching on a warm _teva, _but it was a pleasant change from the grumpy, irritated Yusuf they'd known previously. Zavi was overjoyed to find his son a playmate, since it meant he could get back to work. Babysitting was so tedious a job for a Master Assassin. 


	15. XV: In Which Yusuf Has A Coffee

Tripoli, 1502

The table creaked a bit as Yusuf adjusted his foot on its surface, trying without success to find a comfortable reclining position. On the crate across from him, Esad ground his teeth impatiently.

"They should have been back by now," The second-class Assassin hissed. Yusuf looked up at his fellow Turk with interest. "What's keeping them?"

Yusuf sighed and replaced his foot on the floor, straightening in his seat on the barrel.

"Well, I'm sure they're coming as fast as they can, _dostum,_" He says with a dry smile, "You know, those _Italyanlar _and their lunches." (friend) (Italians)

Esad did not seem convinced, but he fell into a silent scowl.

The church's basement was not the location Yusuf would have picked for a meeting as important as this one, but it suited their needs nicely. An ancient desk had been dragged to the center to form a suitable table for the Assassins to hunch around, and empty crates made appropriate chairs. A lamp hung from the ceiling, casting a dim glow on the map beneath it, and its candle was still more than half solid.

After a few more minutes waiting, the Ottomans' associates returned. Three hooded figures entered the basement in single file and took their seats around the table.

"Ah, finally!" Esad exclaimed, leaning forward eagerly.

"We apologize for our tardiness," the first of the figures spoke quietly, "there was some trouble along the way."

"Do not worry, _filos,_" Yusuf replied, "let us continue our work." (friend)

The Italian nodded and let out a tired sigh. He was certainly too old to be in action, which had confused Yusuf at first. When the Venetian Assassins called for a parley, the Turk had been expecting a livelier leader. Instead he shared the company of a wiry man with graying hair, black eyes, and a crooked smile.

"So," The Venetian beside the mentor, an aging woman with a dark spot on her cheek, began,"enlighten us with your ideas, Yusuf."

"As you wish," Yusuf inhaled deeply, "Kemal has been very busy these past few months, I'm sure you know. Just this spring he's managed to snatch Kos, San Pieto, Lesbos, and Lefkada from Venice's fleet."

"It is not just land he's taken." The old man noted grimly, "Thousands of men have died on both sides of the water."

"All the more reason for this conflict to end," the third Venetian agreed, though his Greek was slurred and hesitant, "I am certain we are both sick of living with this war."

"It's been terrible for business," The woman added absently.

"But Kemal Reis was recently run out of his fort in Lefkada," Yusuf cleared his throat, hoping to regain the Italians' attention. "This October the general's navy drifted into Kostantiniyye with grievous wounds. It will take time for him to recover, but," Yusuf paused before lightly finishing, "Kemal has already requested another set of fifty ships, and Beyazid readily complied."

"This Turkish general," The dark-eyed Venetian mused, fingers cupping his chin, "he is very dangerous. I think it wise to remove him."

Esad reacted angrily to this, his eyes widening as he snapped, "You Italians started this war, and now you end it by killing our greatest officer? _Ne cop!" _(what rubbish)

"Calm yourself, Esad," Yusuf eased the younger Assassin, grasping his arm tightly. Esad obeyed, but his outrage still played darkly on his face. To the Venetians, Yusuf said, "though I would hope we could resolve this without having to kill."

The old Assassin shook his head, "I cannot see how. _Venezia _is too proud to face the number of territories she has lost, and Kemal's defeat has only encouraged her."

"So what do you suppose we do?"

A few moments of silence passed while the pale man thought. Soon, he answered, "If Kemal does not return next year with more boats, the Doge will not attack him."

"This is true," The woman nodded, "after all, Venice only struck because she felt threatened."

"What makes you so sure the arsenal will not be flooded with warships by this time next month?" Yusuf asked, brows raised.

The third Venetian spoke up, "Venice does not have the manpower to invade _Turchia._"

"And even if they did," Esad scoffed, "our cannons are well prepared for use."

Yusuf frowned, "So you are suggesting that we assassinate _Geniki _Kemal." (general)

"No," The grey-haired Assassin replied, "I am suggesting that we remove him. Poison should work; simply put him out of the people's minds for a few months. When _Venezia _sees the Turk running with his tail between his legs, so to speak, they will forget about the conflict and return to normal life."

"You seem very certain of this," Esad countered, "Once Kemal is incapacitated, no one will stop you from marching into Istanbul with a grand fleet."

"As we've already said," The female retorted irritably, "Venice has no fleet. But it is apparent we must extend some form of olive branch to gain your trust." She turned to the old man, "what do you think, Antonio?"

Again, Antonio was deep in contemplation. But he offered Yusuf a plan only a few moments later.

"Say you poison Kemal and the man takes ill. Once we receive word, Teodora and I will go to the Doge and convince him that the threat of _Constantinopoli _has passed."

"Why will he listen to you?" Yusuf wondered.

Antonio smiled crookedly, "Agostino Barbarigo is a shrewd ruler. He remembers what became of his brother and will not be eager to share his fate. I need but list a name and he will do as I say."

"I see. Continue."

"Agostino will divert resources from _L'Arsenale _to repair what's left of the state's economy and, assuming Kemal stays inactive, the war will eventually fall from the people's consciousness, causing it to essentially disappear."

"It is risky," Yusuf murmured, stroking his beard in concentration, "but it is a plan."

"_Si,_" Antonio agreed. At the Turks' skeptical silence, the Venetian added, "We will keep in contact throughout the entire ordeal. You will know everything that happens in Venice, I swear it."

"And no harm will come to Istanbul?" Yusuf asked.

"No. No harm will come to Istanbul."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The breeze was a welcome relief from the incredible stillness of the chapel's catacombs, and Yusuf was satisfied with his decision the moment he stepped outside.

Tripoli's suburbs stretched out before him as the Master Assassin made his way down the rocky hill that served as their meeting ground. Thoughts of the conflict and the plans he and Teodora discussed still fluttered about in his head, making it difficult to relax. As always, the Assassins were torn between action and inaction. While direct intervention could potentially damage both countries, allowing the war to drag on for the next decade was not an option. The whole situation was a mess, and frankly Yusuf was surprised the Assassins had waited this long to try to fix it. That didn't make reparations any easier, though.

His rumination was suddenly interrupted as something bounced off his abdomen. The Turk glanced around, alarmed. He soon found the source of the disturbance- a leathery ball sat innocently at his feet, almost about to roll down the hill.

Yusuf stooped to pick it up, and his ears perceived pounding footsteps approaching him from down the road. By the time Yusuf returned to his full height, a child had appeared, red-faced and wheezing for breath.

"_Me synchoreite, kyrios,_" (excuse me, sir) The youth gasped, bowing deeply to his Turkish elder, "May I please have my ball back?"

Yusuf considered, and while he thought another young one drew near. A girl of around six years of age peeked out from behind her playmate's heaving shoulders, watching Yusuf with keen attention.

Finally, the Bursan chuckled and tossed the toy at the children, who quickly scrambled to catch it.

With no further distractions apparent, Yusuf continued on his way to the village. He reached it without incident and headed to a coffee house, looking forward to warm, refreshing drink. After handing the serving boy a few _akce, _the Turkish Assassin elected to sip his bitter concoction outside, and so he rambled out to the gardens behind the shop.

The sun was just beginning to set, and the grounds were bathed in the evening's golden glow. Spices floated on the air, along with the grassy scent of pollen from the many varieties of flowers Yusuf passed on his journey. The Bursan paused near one of the garden's many trees to sip his coffee and noticed a songbird chirping happily above him. The Turk stopped drinking for a second to smile at the oblivious flash of color that flitted between the branches.

"Look at you," He told the bird quietly, "not a care in the world. I bet you don't have to worry about ending the life of Constantinople's most aggressive general, eh?"

"Is that something that worries you, _amico?" _

The Master Assassin turns, surprised to find his Italian friend with a steaming mug of black water beside him.

"I suppose not," Yusuf admitted, bringing his coffee back to his lips.

"You Ottomans think you have too many problems," Antonio coughed out a laugh, "at least you're winning the war. _Italia _is such a _relitto_…" (wreck)

Yusuf guided them to a bench, listening both to the elderly gentleman and the songbird as they walked.

"Venice's duke is incompetent, Rodrigo Borgia treats Rome as his plaything," Antonio sighed, "And now to make matters worse, the Pope's son has sacked Monteriggioni."

"What does that mean?" Yusuf asked helplessly.

"It means that Ezio Auditore is now personally involved."

"Ezio Auditore…" Yusuf tried the name out on his tongue and once again it failed to fit, "Do you know that man? I've heard much of him, but none of it very reliable."

Antonio laughed earnestly and set down his drink for a moment. Yusuf failed to see what was so amusing, but allowed the older man his time.

When he was ready, Antonio began to explain:

"Ezio Auditore da Firenze is a genius and an idiot," he chuckled, "and undoubtedly the greatest Assassin I have ever met. Twenty-six years ago, the Templars murdered his family and he swore revenge. Now, when it comes to vengeance, Ezio is very thorough…"

"What did he do?" Yusuf asked with some level of excitement.

Antonio grinned as he replied, "He killed half the Templars in Italy, Agostino's brother Marco among them-"

"That's the name you were going to mention to the Doge," Yusuf's eyebrows shot up as the realization dawned, "Ezio killed Marco Barbarigo back in the eighties- _evet, evet, _I remember now!"

"Yes," Antonio nodded, "I aided him in that quest, which is why I know him so well. Ezio Auditore is a name to be feared, especially now that he has attempted to assassinate the Pope _twice." _

"Twice?" Yusuf repeated, a snicker rising in his throat, "I thought the Pope was the most protected man in _Europa._"

"He is," Antonio agreed, "But you should know that Ezio is no average thug."

The Venetian thief lowered his voice and leaned closer, "He has this strange look about him, mostly in the eyes. He knows things about people, sometimes things he couldn't possibly have understood."

"Do you mean…" Yusuf frowned, his own tone barely above a whisper, "enhanced senses or something?"

"Possibly," Antonio shrugs, "but I think it's more than that. I've seen him at work- he can spot one man in a crowd of hundreds in fewer than fifteen seconds. He can track not only a target's previous locations, but where the man intends to visit as well." Antonio hesitated for a moment, "It's disconcerting."

"Ah," Yusuf hummed in understanding and leaned into his seat, coffee long forgotten.

The Assassins reconvened at dusk to discuss further details of their truce, but for the entire meeting Yusuf could think of nothing other than the legendary 'Assassin from Firenze'.


	16. XVI: In Which Yusuf Sets Himself On Fire

Constantinople, 1503

"And so, in short, it would be very much appreciated if you would, in any form, send word of your approval or disapproval, as the case might be, of the situation in South Galata and, should you choose…"

Yusuf could take no more. He released his grip on the offending letter and its outrageous use of commas, watching with relief as it slid to the surface of his desk. However, the Master Assassin knew the document would merely sit there sulking like a hungry predator, eager to rise up and snap at him again when given the chance. He'd have to try to remember not to give it the chance.

The Turk's boredom was positively _palpable._ It radiated from every surface in the office and leaked from his pores. For the past three hours, Yusuf Tazim hadn't a single thing to do.

However, this was not usually the case. Ordinarily, Yusuf's desk would be swamped with work and requests and demands and all sorts of goodies he'd have to deal with immediately. Or an Assassin would require briefing or a wound tending, or an official a meeting.

But on this particular day, no such activities befriended the Bursan. All of his students were away on errands or dreadfully busy. The Byzantines were laying surprisingly low for the past few months, probably as a result of the war ending. The factions of Kostantiniyye were satisfied with the current situation, and the guard was behaving itself.

Yusuf had tried sleep. Whenever he had free time, doctors always advised the Assassin to rest and recover his energy. Honestly, Yusuf failed to see the point in sleeping because whenever he did it, he arose more tired than he had been when he lay down. But even though the Mentor managed to pass at least two hours with his eyes shut, he was still incredibly unamused.

After the nap, Yusuf attempted his paperwork. One long, winding, and difficult to comprehend letter from the guild of artisans put an end to that idea.

Which brought the Turk to his current situation of nothing-to-do-itis.

"Perhaps I should take a walk." He suggested to himself. Yusuf agreed and stood from his seat, abandoning the carnivorous parchment on his blotter.

Walking was always a good way to pass time, and it stretched the Bursan's cramped legs. Apparently, Galata was just as empty as its hideout, because Yusuf found himself able to wander the streets freely without being harassed by guards or beggars. He passed an old woman weaving outside her home and waved to her. She chuckled and waved back.

Yes, Yusuf told himself, this had been a good idea. When he reached _Halic,_ he became almost certain. Sea wind ruffled his hair and brought a smile to his face. Yusuf approached the thin wood rail on the edge of the dock and leaned against it, staring across the river at the Imperial districts. The sun had just set, and everything had that bluish dusk haze. It was pleasant…

Pounding of sandals on stone. Yusuf turned his head curiously towards the source of the sound- a child. As the youth grew closer, Yusuf noted that he was older than he appeared at first. The boy, a lighter skinned kid with bright eyes and dark, wavy hair, seemed to be running desperately. His features were wide with alarm and his face was damp with sweat.

"_Bir dakikia bekleyin, cocuk,_" (hold a moment, child) Yusuf called to him when the boy was near. He halted and seemed to look up to Yusuf with some form of recognition. "What is wrong?"

"There you are!" The young one gasped, bending over and resting his hands on his thighs. After a little bit he added, "I've been searching everywhere for you!"

"Why?" Yusuf raised his eyebrows.

The boy shook his head, already starting to recover from his sprint, "My mother told me once that should I ever be in grave danger, I should come straight to you, Yusuf Tazim, for aid."

Yusuf laughed quietly, "And what am I to you and your mother, _arkadasim?" _

At this response, the youth seemed confused. He stared up at Yusuf with an expression that sent chills down the Turk's spine. Yusuf had seen that same face on someone he'd very much thought dead: his grandfather.

Of course, the Turk reminded himself, this was just a brain-hiccup. A brief hallucination, a product of his boredom. After all, how could some random street-urchin possibly have the face of his mother's guardian?

"_Efendim,_" The child began cautiously, "Do you not know?"

Dreading the truth, though having half guessed it already, Yusuf beckoned for the boy to continue.

"You are my father, _efendim." _

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

After the next five minutes, Yusuf dearly wished he could undo the entire day.

Claiming that there was, 'no time to stand around', the child took Yusuf's hand and began to drag him across half the district. As they 'walked', the boy explained his situation to his father, beginning with his name.

"Who was your mother again?" Yusuf asked Efram helplessly as the young one yanked him around another sharp corner. The boy's coloring did not betray much, except a conceivable descension from the Tazim bloodline.

"A Romani," Efram replied, "At least, that's how the city knew her. She separated herself from the camp when she…" he paused, but in words only, "when I was born."

"And when was that?"

"I do not know the date, but I was told that the year was fourteen-ninety."

"Ah," Yusuf paled. He jammed his mind back thirteen years and tried to recall what exactly he'd gotten up to all those days ago. He had a vague, fuzzy memory concerning a Romani with beautiful eyes, but those were a dime a dozen. There was celebratory party over some trivial matter, there was wine, and later in the night there'd been-

Yusuf swallowed and then licked his dry lips. He was beginning to understand now where his little friend Efram had come from.

"So why wait until right this moment to find me? And how did you find me?" Yusuf continued to question, even though Efram announced that they would soon arrive at their destination.

Efram shrugged, and his voice sounded sharp when he replied, "You are not as hard to locate as you think, Yusuf. While my mother was alive, I didn't need anyone else. My uncle was there as well, and he was as much a father to me as anyone. But then when he passed, too…"

Yusuf decided to leave the touchy subject alone and instead pressed in a different direction, "What was that you said earlier about 'grave danger'?"

"We're here. Hopefully, this will help you understand."

The Turk strained his eyes to try and comprehend where 'here' was.

He stood in a dim alleyway, oppressive and filthy. At his feet was a form of old box, and inside it lay bundles of ratty blankets. Beside the box sat a few wooden chests filled with half-eaten bread, morsels of cheese, and a few rotting fruits. A bucket of water sat on the opposite end of the alley, but its smell dissuaded Yusuf from coming any closer.

Efram had busied himself while Yusuf studied. The thirteen-year-old returned to his father holding a dog-eared piece of parchment, splattered with ink that almost resembled Turkish.

"Take a look," The boy said darkly.

The scrawl was difficult if not impossible to decipher, but eventually Yusuf got the gist of it. The note was a threat. In it, the author claimed to have control of an entity known as 'Bensu', and suggested that if Efram did not feel like sharing, a very bad thing would befall this 'Bensu'.

Yusuf returned the letter to his son, asking, "Who is Bensu?"

Efram seemed sheepish on this subject. He turned away, meaning to put the note in a safe place, but Yusuf thought it more from discomfort.

"She is…" Efram hesitated, then turned back and looked up with those familiar eyes, "we've grown close, living in the streets as we do. I taught her to defend herself and to pinch food from the carts. I don't…I can't…"

The boy was lost for words, but Yusuf was pleased to find that he could provide them.

"You can't abandon her."

He nodded, raising his chin a bit higher. Yusuf sighed, taking a bit of rest against the alley's walls.

"I cannot let them keep her," Efram insisted, his cheeks flushed, "If they get impatient or bored, they would…they would do terrible things. She's only twelve."

"Who is 'they'?"

Once again, Efram seemed reluctant to speak. He glanced about warily, then answered, "It isn't safe to talk of that here. Not yet."

"I see…" Yusuf said, bringing a finger to comb his beard. After a few minutes contemplation, he proposed an idea.

"Efram," The Turk spoke suddenly. Efram stood at attention, "Pack your things and come with me. You will not be returning to this…" Yusuf tossed a hand at the alley in disgust, "reeking pit."

It reminded him disturbingly much of his own time in the street.

"You will help me, then?" Efram asked in disbelief. "Are you certain?"

Yusuf shrugged, "It seems the right thing to do. Besides, I am impressed you were able to find me at all, much less to tell me all you have. You've earned a bit of my trust, little one."

Efram bowed gratefully and quickly emptied his things into a few caskets.

"Besides," Yusuf added as they walked briskly to the hideout, "Galata Den has been ever so dull lately."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Unsurprisingly, the Bureau was just as bare when Yusuf returned as it was when he left. The sight of it almost scared the Turk: hookah pots clear of smoke, pillows empty of residents, tables empty of seats. But to Efram, the place was paradise. For a few moments, the thirteen-year-old wandered about with his jaw hanging open, eyes unable to rest in one spot for more than a second.

"You live here?"

Yusuf smiled as he walked over to the main room's desk, "Not by myself. But come, we've much to discuss."

Efram was quick to agree and approached Yusuf at the desk. The elder Tazim pulled out a map of the district and flattened it. He then procured a pen and ink and began to ask:

"Now, explain your story again. Who has kidnapped Bensu and why?"

Efram inhaled, "Bensu and I live separately from the rest of the orphan children. It is more efficient to care for only each other, and we benefit from exchange of skills."

"And where are the rest of the children?"

Here, Efram seemed hesitant again. But he swallowed his fear and continued, "The _Sokak Akrepler._"

Yusuf raised an eyebrow, "The Street Scorpions?"

The boy nodded, "If you're smart and strong enough, you get accepted. The kids there never go hungry and never have to worry. But…" He paused, considering his words, "their work is not very…good."

"What do you mean?"

"They don't just steal food, like Bensu and I do," Efram explained, "They cut purses- _fat _purses. They're daredevils, bullies. A few of the older boys are rich, and they joined the gang for fun."

Efram lowered his voice as he delivered the group's mightiest achievement, "I think they even _kill. _Two kids were talking about stealing from a Janissary, and the next morning his body was discovered in the _Halic!" _

"How do you know so much of their inner operations?"

"They tried to recruit me last week," Efram admitted, "but I rejected their offer. I didn't want to involve Ben-" He stopped again, "-involve myself with their deeds."

"And now, in retaliation, they've abducted Bensu." Yusuf said, narrowing his eyes in contempt.

"_Evet,_" The younger Tazim nodded sadly, "I must have insulted them, and now the _Sokak Akrepler _want me to feel sorry."

There was a short silence as the two pondered Efram's plight. After a while, Yusuf quietly asked his son to point out the Scorpions' location on the map. Efram did so, and Yusuf circled the area with his pen.

"Tell me, _cocuk,_" Yusuf said as he marked the exits and entrances of the large alley, "how old is the average Street Scorpion?" (child)

Efram shrugged and then folded his arms, "Perhaps the youngest is eleven, and the oldest seventeen. I don't know for certain."

"What sort of men are they?"

Again, the little Tazim was unsure of how to answer, "They are ruthless and bold. Everyone knows that the _Sokak Akrepler _are not afraid of anything."

Yusuf grinned and set down his pen, "Everyone's afraid of something."

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The air was damp and heavy- telltale signs of the rain that was to come. A bead of sweat traced Efram's temple as the boy quickly made his way further and further from safety. His anxiety only increased as the entrance to the Scorpions' den appeared around the next corner.

Ever since he was a small child, Efram knew not to cross the notorious _Sokak Akrepler. _The gang had been around for decades and unfortunately was never in want of members. Since the Venetian conflict Istanbul's number of orphaned children almost doubled. And these orphans were not usually of the gentle sort.

Finally, he arrived. Efram inhaled deeply and then entered the old courtyard where a group of boys, some older and some younger, sat waiting to greet him.

"Efram!"

The thirteen-year-old started, eyes darting to find the speaker. He received the image of a thin child, his large eyes and gaunt face making it a challenge to discern his age. He wore a tunic with a rope belt and torn pants, but despite his clothes this youth possessed some kind of presence. When he walked up to Efram with a grin, the other Street Scorpions shuddered and almost backed away.

"I am impressed you came."

"Where is Bensu?" Efram said bravely, bringing himself to his full height as he accused, "What have you done with her, Saglam?"

Saglam's pleased appearance evaporated and was replaced by narrow dislike, "She's fine. I would be more concerned for myself, were I in your shoes."

"You said that if I came, she'd be let go." The little Tazim pressed on, "So where is she?"

Saglam sighed, then turned and snapped his fingers. Immediately, shuffling was heard further down the alley and three figures entered the plaza: two boys, no older than fourteen, and between them a girl with dark, tangled hair and a fighting spirit. Bensu struggled every step, but the thugs still managed to drag her before Saglam without much difficulty.

"There," the leader retorted, "satisfied?"

"Efram?" Bensu's eyes widened to the size of plates when they fell on her partner, "What are you doing here?"

Efram averted his gaze from hers and instead faced Saglam, "Now let her go."

"You are not the one giving orders here, _picler._" Saglam replied warningly. His hand moved to the dagger on his hip, hovering there for a moment while he spoke his next words: "When you refused my invitation, you humiliated me. You thought yourself above me, above every man in our organization."

Efram tensed and another drop of sweat dampened his collar. Behind him, Saglam's cronies blocked the exit and stood ready to grab the thirteen-year-old, should their ringleader give the signal.

Saglam unsheathed his blade and leveled it at the trembling boy before him, "I say it's time you learned to respect the rule of Kostantiniyye: don't make Saglam angry."

Before any violence could take place, Bensu suddenly wrenched free of her captors and ran to Efram, placing herself between the two teenagers.

"Let us leave, Saglam!" Bensu demanded, "We're no threat to you. We want to live in peace!"

The older youth frowned, but his dagger did not leave its spot, "I was hoping, with time, you would forget about Efram. That if I could not save one disillusioned street rat, perhaps I could save the other. But if you want to die with him, so be it."

Now Efram and Bensu were completely surrounded, and the clinking of readied metal bounced from the alley walls. The partners stepped closer together, back to back, both trying desperately to conceive of a way out. But with Saglam in front of them, and blades at every turn, chances of survival were slim.

And then there was an explosion. A crack of thunder and the courtyard was instantly filled with smoke. The children doubled up coughing, and many waved at the air in front of them, attempting to clear it. When the dust dissipated, all eyes turned to the ominous shape in the center of the plaza.

It had to be at least ten feet tall, and it wore an enormous black hooded robe. The apparition addressed Saglam as it spoke in an eerie tone:

"Two children."

"Who are you?" The Scorpion asked hotly, craning his neck to speak to what he hoped was the figure's head.

It answered simply, "I am death."

Around them, Efram noticed that a few of the younger thugs had gone pale, while others were grasping their dirks with trembling hands.

Saglam laughed loudly, "You expect me to believe that _sacmalik_?" (bullshit)

Instantly, another burst of sound, even noisier than before. It was as though a cannon had gone off right there in the yard, and a few of the Scorpions were knocked off their feet. By the time the gang had recovered, a sinister smell had begun to circulate: the stench of burning hair and eggs.

"I desire a sacrifice," Death continued, "Two children must be given tonight."

"And what if I do not comply?" Saglam sneered, still haughty despite the lack of moral in his minions.

"Then I shall take all of you."

Silence enveloped the courtyard as the Street Scorpions chewed on this new development. The younger members had already started to lose their grips, and one boy turned tail, disappearing down the road. Saglam bit his lip, but then snapped:

"I do not fear you. Bajram!"

A male of fifteen years leapt in his spot, wide eyes responding to his master's call.

"Show this freak that he has intruded on the wrong gang."

Bajram swallowed and charged at Death with a yell. He raised his dagger high above his head, hoping to plunge it deep into the shade's chest. But to the awe of all, the blade ricocheted from the robe, nearly bent backwards. Bajram howled with pain, clutching his wrist tightly.

Saglam ordered another boy to attack Death, but when the child drew near the figure erupted into flames. The sudden burst of light scorched the eyes of the nearest thugs, and they cried out. Everyone backed away, watching as Death burned without being consumed.

Instead of hands, twin swords slid from his sleeves as Death repeated his request:

"Two children. _Now._"

Efram and Bensu were shoved at the figure's feet by the thugs behind them, who had all but lost their nerve. By now Saglam's host had been reduced by half and was dropping fast.

"Take them!" A voice from the gang insisted, "Take them and leave, _efendim!" _

Death shook its head, the only part of it not yet alight, "No. I have claimed this place. Run away now, or I shall claim you, too."

Saglam was trembling, but he argued nonetheless, "This is my den! You cannot-"

A flash of lightning and a ripple of thunder, "_LEAVE._"

Saglam left.

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Efram was cautious to wait until he was certain the _Sokak Akrepler _would not return, but as soon as he was able he ran to Death and batted its robes, desperately beating the flames. There was a snap of cracking wood, and then the figure collapsed altogether, letting out a muffled groan as it hit the ground.

Bensu watched on in shock as Efram removed the hood and allowed the man beneath to gasp for air. Efram rolled up the hem of the shade's robes and swiftly unbuckled what was left of the stilts from the Assassin's boots. He tossed the useless bits of wood away and helped Yusuf escape from the flaming mousetrap, with the latter still coughing greatly.

"Efram?" The girl asked as Efram helped Yusuf unbuckle the steel armor protecting his front, "Who is that? What's going on?"

"Bensu," Efram replied, looking up at his partner for a moment and smiling, "This is my father, Yusuf Tazim."

"Greetings," The Assassin hacked, pulling himself into a sitting position.

"Thanks to him," Efram continued, watching with pride as Yusuf settled, "we're finally free of those monsters."

"I just did it for fun," Yusuf admitted, clearing his throat, "I really should impersonate 'death' more often. It worked like a charm."

Bensu approached the Tazims and slowly joined them in the dirt. She looked Yusuf over critically, but after a few moments she inclined her head and spoke softly, "Thank you, _efendim._"

"It's fine, _sevgili,_" Yusuf nodded. After a few moments of silence, he wondered, "So, what now? I suppose there is room in Galata Den for two more residents…"

"That is very kind of you," Efram answered, "but I've been thinking and…I believe it's best we separate, Father."

"Truly?" Yusuf asked, despite never really considering the boy to be his son in the first place.

Efram seemed sheepish as he replied, "I've gone to great lengths to exclude myself from a gang of criminals. I'd rather stay away from a master of murderers."

Yusuf understood. In Efram's search for his father, the term 'Assassin' must have come often, but the boy might not have chosen to believe it. After a night in Galata Den, Yusuf could see why his lifestyle might have frightened Efram away. "It's time I sought honest work," Efram decided, resting his hands on his knees, "no more pinching, no more starving."

"I'd be glad to help you," Bensu offered with a smile. Efram reciprocated, and Yusuf couldn't help a small grin of his own as he wished his son farewell and good fortune.


	17. XVII: Yusuf and the Romans

Constantinople, 1504

Yusuf licked his lips and frowned.

"Repeat just one more time, if you will," He requested, "because I'm still not certain I understand."

There was a collective groan, but Tulio obliged.

"The three of us were sent here from _Roma _by our Mentor," the dark eyed Assassin explained, "You have spies in your midst, and we have been tasked with weeding them out."

"Why was I not informed of your approach?"

Tulio shifted, "I exchanged letters with an Assassin named 'Dogan'."

Yusuf turned to glare at his second-in-command. Said Jerusalemite smiled sheepishly and mumbled, "You were busy…"

"Never mind that," The Turk spoke now to his Roman guests, "What spies?"

"As I'm sure you know, King Ferdinand of Spain has made a foolish move this summer. He continues to exile artisans and workers from his kingdom, claiming them to be religious infidels."

Tulio paused for a moment. His companions, an olive skinned man who appeared to be sleeping beneath his hood and a pale woman with blonde hair, remained silent.

"Your _sultano,_ Bayezid, is wise to accept these refugees. He strengthens his country while Ferdinand and Isabella weakens theirs. But the Templar Grandmaster of Rome, Rodrigo Borgia-"

"Wait, wait," Yusuf interrupted by waving his hands above his desk, "Borgia? Isn't he that mad Pope trying to take over _Venedik_?" (Venice)

"More or less," Tulio gritted, patience thin after the long voyage to reach Constantinople, "The Borgia have brokered a deal with King Ferdinand. A few Templar agents are hiding amongst the immigrants. Once inside the city, they will report the workings of the Ottoman court to their Spanish masters."

"And what do the Templars receive in return?" Yusuf wondered.

"Men," Tulio answered darkly. "Think of it, _Maestro. _Hundreds of young, strong bodied men with no families, nowhere to go. What could be more inviting than a life of treasure and prestige gilded with the black cross?"

"I see," The thirty-seven-year-old Bursan murmured, tugging at his beard, "you have made your point. Still, I would like to accompany you on your mission and see these spies for myself."

Tulio bowed his head, "As you wish, Mentor."

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Over the course of the next two weeks, Yusuf nearly forgot about the Roman Assassins entirely. The stealthy group of three was silent and unobtrusive, much more refined than the Bursan's own recruits. They were quite the mysterious bunch, however, and often Yusuf would find himself itching to ask them of their branch of the Brotherhood in Rome.

But for once, the Turk kept his nose to himself and allowed the Italians to work in peace. After their first expedition to the immigrant slums, Yusuf was half convinced they were chasing wild geese.

It had been such a nasty place. Tents of clothing in the street, filthy children played in the mud while their parents sat and watched with empty eyes. The stench of vomit and excretion had been all over.

Spain had expelled so many people already, and with Portugal removing their heretics as well the roads were stuffed. There was simply no room to put the refugees, and so now they stood where they could.

Despite the grime and the suffering, Yusuf and the Romans could find no trace of Ferdinand's men. Whoever the agents were, they blended seamlessly into the crowd of desperates.

That was why, weeks later, Yusuf had given up on the mission. He allowed his brothers a place to stay and a base of operations, but he himself no longer believed the tall tale. If there truly were Templars lurking in the crowded district, they would have acted by now.

Tulio and his men showed no such disinterest. And so day after day, Yusuf watched from his desk as the three recruits pulled up their curious grey hoods and exited the Den. He had other work to attend.

Their investigation appeared fruitless until one afternoon. A Roman Assassin, the olive-skinned one, breathlessly entered Yusuf's office.

"Tulio requests your presence, _Maestro,_" Rocco relayed, "There has been a development at the docks."

It didn't take Yusuf long to discern which docks the recruit referred to. The lack of housing made it blatantly obvious where the immigrants stepped off the boat and where they slept that night.

The Turk waded through the muck of the camps and eventually arrived at the harbor where Tulio greeted him.

"_Maestro,_" The high-ranking recruit inclined his head, then gestured for Yusuf to follow as he walked briskly down the port's side. Water licked at their heels to the right, and to the left beggars stuck out their hands for coins.

"What's happened?" Yusuf asked.

"See for yourself." Tulio pulled to a halt. Before them sat an average looking boat, foreign in structure but sturdy in design. Its sails flapped in the wind, giving off every appearance of harmlessness.

"This vessel was just registered. It arrived about two days ago," Tulio paused in order to better emphasize his next few words: "from Spain."

Yusuf raised a brow, "You think Ferdinand sent it?"

"I am certain."

The Turkish mentor took a step forward, "Then what are we waiting for? There must be something of use aboard."

Tulio grinned, "Ah, we think alike, _signore. _Laura is already inside, clearing the way for us."

Within the hour, the two Assassins had snuck their way onto the vessel and were prowling its decks in search of clues. Laura met them in the captain's quarters, where she had been struggling with the body of a large sailor. Rocco volunteered to help her dispose of the corpses, which left the leaders alone once more.

"Whatever's on this boat, it's hidden nicely." Tulio groaned after emptying yet another unhelpful chest.

Yusuf couldn't help agreeing. The remainder of the afternoon was spent scouring the ship's cargo hold, lodgings, galley, anywhere precious information might have been stored. Yet their search came up bare, and the Bursan was revisiting his theories of a hoax with renewed vigor.

"Anything on that side?" Tulio asked him half-heartedly. Yusuf merely shook his head.

The Roman Assassin sighed and slumped onto the captain's bed. Yusuf leaned against the wooden wall in similar defeat.

However, the wall was not as solid as the Turk believed. His shoulder dug into something that creaked, then clicked. Yusuf's eyes widened and he whirled around to find that he had not leaned against a plank of wood, but a hidden mechanism!

There was a low rumbling sound as a ripple ran through the boat. Both Assassins returned to their normal height and glanced around, bewildered.

There was a loud thump from down the hall, and the Turk and the Roman hurled into it to discover a trapdoor. The trapdoor had flung itself open and it led into darkness.

Tulio was quick in procuring a torch, and the two descended. The staircase was incredibly narrow and soggy, and Yusuf rats' eyes on him like little darts. But their trepidation was soon worthwhile as the Templar cargo came into view.

"_Dio mio!" _Tulio gasped. "Look at this!"

Yusuf looked well, for he could not say he'd seen that much gold in one place his entire life.

Eight chests, three of which had spilled open during the journey and spewed their contents across the rotting floor of the hold, sat before them. In addition to the large boxes of gold were sets of armor, racks of weapons, and a few nice sized statues.

"_Brillante,_" Tulio breathed.

"Everything one needs to buy a Sultan's ear." Yusuf remarked drily.

The Roman turned to the Turk, cheeks pale, "This bounty must be meant for Ferdinand's agents. Surely they will make an attempt to claim it soon."

Yusuf grinned, "And when they do, we will be waiting to greet them."

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It was a harrowing business, setting up the watch. The Templars did not make a grab for the treasure that day, nor the next. One Assassin needed to be on the boat at all times, and both Yusuf and Tulio needed to be within five minutes notice of it. In all honesty, Yusuf was ready to take the money for himself and dismiss the spies to failure. After all, no Ottoman official would grant them access to the palace without a sizeable hunk of gold in his pocket.

But once again Tulio's patience proved its worth, and when the first stranger stepped across the ship's threshold the Assassins leapt into action.

The Templars approached in pairs at various times throughout the day. In the early hours of the morning, two refugees scuttled over the railing and onto the boat's deck. Yusuf waited for them to enter the lower cabins before signaling Tulio's men (a method of making sure their men were authentic Templars and not two thugs looking to steal a dinghy).

Before the intruders could so much as blink, Rocco and Laura had beaten and restrained them. Yusuf ordered them taken to Galata for questioning, but the interrogation itself waited for the rest of their group to show itself.

At noon another pair arrived. By now the pattern was clear, and the agents were apprehended on the upper deck. One more duo was caught at sunset, and by night all six Templars found themselves lying in an unhappy heap at the Assassin Den.

Tulio decided it best not to interrogate them at once. Instead, the Roman waited until morning, a move that gave the spies several hours to ponder their fate (Yusuf approved this plan with an acknowledging beard-tug).

And so the Turk awoke to the sound of fists beating flesh. Yawning, the master crawled out of bed and thanked the Creator he was not the one receiving the thrashing.

After a light breakfast, Yusuf strolled into the main room of the Den where the thumping originated. Three or four Templars writhed on the floor sporting bruises and shattered bones. Rocco was still working on the weary Templar in the chair up front.

"_Gunaydin,_ Rocco," (good morning) Yusuf beckoned the Assassin, who turned. Rocco reluctantly accepted the opportunity to halt his interrogation and walked over to where the Bursan stood with a cup of coffee.

"_Boun giorno," _(good morning) Rocco returned with a bowed head. Yusuf eyed his raw knuckles warily.

"How's your, uh, work been going?"

Rocco sighed heavily, "It is frustrating, _Mentore. _These tight-lipped _bastardi _have been paid well; none will tell me a thing."

Yusuf took a sip of his drink and thought. After a moment, his face lit with cunning and he handed the cup to the olive-skinned Roman.

"Hold this. I have an idea."

The Templar appeared to have been put through his paces. His chest heaved with every breath, one of his eyes refused to open, and he favored his left side (hinting at a crushed rib or two). When Yusuf drew near, the man hastily sealed his other eye and tensed himself for the attack that was to come.

"You serve King Ferdinand of Spain, correct?"

At first, the spy stared at Yusuf dumbly, as though still expecting him to strike. But when no blow materialized, the Templar swallowed and replied:

"I do not understand, _efendim. _I came to this city to avoid persecution, yet I am immediately abducted and tortured upon arrival."

Yusuf pressed his lips together, "I'm relieved to see that little beating has not affected your tongue."

"Apologies," The man coughed, "I merely speak the truth."

"So, tell me about yourself then. Why were you on that Spanish boat, eh?"

"Not all of my family were able to escape _Sfarad,_" (Spain) He explained, "the boat carried money and goods that I could use to arrange their rescue."

The Templar paused to gather his strength. Yusuf watched with interest as a bead of sweat rolled from his forehead.

"If your family could afford to send you gold, why didn't they just arrange the escape themselves?" The Bursan wondered. "Why send you all the way to _Kostantiniyye_?"

"Because," A swallow, another bead of sweat, "The Inquisition will pounce on anything that moves in the entire country of Spain. It is much easier to conceive of a plan here in Istanbul, where everyone is free."

"Free," Yusuf repeated with a snort, but he then returned to the questioning, "If Spain is locked down so tight, how did an entire boat filled with money and supplies slip through their fingers?"

"My family is still somewhat wealthy- some officials can still be bribed." The smell of the Templar's anxiety was beginning to disturb the Turk.

"Your family is not wealthy," Yusuf corrected, "if they were, you would not dress like this."

The man wore dirtied and simple robes; the sort of thing beggars and lower peasants wore. Yusuf knew enough of high-class politics to understand that if a man is born a noble he stays a noble.

"I…" The Templar swallowed, but Yusuf could see his mouth was dry as a bone.

"Why don't you just tell me of Ferdinand's business with the Ottoman crown."

"No," The spy shuddered, "The Spaniards…I cannot betray them. The things they do to their enemies…"

"I see," Yusuf nodded in understanding, "Perhaps your fellow immigrants will be kinder once I've explained your situation to them."

At this, the Templar bolted and his eyes bulged, "No! Do not relinquish me to their judgment, I beg you!"

And in this way, Yususf was told everything he wanted to know.

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The truth of the matter was that the Roman Assassins had not planned to stay in Istanbul for longer than a month. Tulio informed Yusuf of this as the Mentor accompanied the recruit to the docks. And yet, despite their rather extended visit, Yusuf was almost sad to see them go. He had learned much of the western world from their manners and equipment (actually, and this amused him greatly, it seemed the Italians were about twenty years behind when it came to technology).

But their mission was over, and now they must return to their own master to report success. After divulging every scrap of information they'd been entrusted with, the Templar spies were executed. Dogan suggested that Yusuf replace the agents with representatives of their own.

"Consider it, Yusuf," The Jerusalemite had said, "These men had no background, no names, no relatives. They couldn't have, or they risked exposing their loyalties to Spain."

"And should our Assassins assume their identities," Yusuf agreed slowly, "we could help the refugees get back on their feet and gather a few to our cause."

The Romans readily concurred, and within the week the southern slums had gained six new residents.

Seagulls cries brought Yusuf back to the boat departing Constantinople, where Tulio turned to him and bowed.

"It has been an honor to work with you, _Maestro _Tazim. _Vi ringrazio per il vostro aiuto._" (thank you very much for your help)

Yusuf smiled, "Indeed. If only your master would send his pupils my way more often."

Tulio chuckled and returned the gesture, "I shall bring him your regards."


	18. XVIII: Yusuf and the Snake Charmer

Constantinople, 1505

Yusuf stared into his drink and the drink stared back. He contemplated its light, amber color before taking a brief sip. Its taste tingled on his tongue and tickled his eyes, but it slid down his throat smoothly.

"Why so glum, _ogretmen?_" (mentor) Kesim laughed as he danced by, a Romani dripping from his arm, "This is supposed to be a happy occasion!"

Yusuf watched his student as the man stumbled away. The tavern was full of mirth, with Assassins filling their cups in every corner and Romanis for any who lacked company. And yet, the Bursan found himself numb to it all.

For two years, Istanbul had known nothing but peace. The Templars had all but vanished, their claw-like grip on _Kostantiniyye _finally slipping away. Venice had grown somewhat complacent, and the lack of war did their aging Sultan well. Bayezid had lost his edge in recent years, what with the Assassins taking Turkey's political turmoil into their own hands. Instead of conquest and conquer, the Ottoman ruler preferred quiet studies of alchemy and astronomy (sciences that the youngest Prince, Suleiman, had come to respect, as Yusuf understood). Bayezid's tolerance only sweetened life in Istanbul, and the Assassins had not killed in months.

It was for that reason that Yusuf began to disband them. Yusuf was not a stupid man; he would not let his guard down unless he had proof that Constantinople was secure. But was it really necessary for all thirty recruits to sit around Galata Den at the same time? Day after day, with nothing to entertain them but their training? Not even to mention that many of the Assassins were young, brash, and eager to work. How long would it be before Yusuf had an accident on his hands and Janissaries at the door?

No, Yusuf admitted silently to his drink, better they leave the Order for the time being and find real homes.

And yet when Zavi, now a thirty-two-year-old Master Assassin, came forward to relinquish his hookblade, Yusuf wavered. Zavi had smiled and explained that he and Kesafa wanted to use the calm to raise their children properly.

As hard as it was to believe that his childhood friend had brought forth a son and adopted a daughter, Yusuf found he did not want Zavi to leave. He did not know why. But in the end, he had no argument. Zavi thanked him and assured the Mentor that he would be available should he skills be needed.

Hence the tavern. A farewell ceremony. After that night, Galata would be a much emptier place. Fifteen Assassins, half their number, would lay down arms and become citizens of _Kosantiniyye. _

Yusuf would not.

"You are worrying your pupils, Yusuf."

The bearded Bursan did not have to raise his eyes to know Dogan had sidled next to him on the bar.

"I am merely thinking."

Dogan laughed, "What is there to think about? Enjoy the Assassins while they are still here, _dostum._" (friend)

Yusuf remained silent. After a moment, the younger man softened his tone and added,

"It's not goodbye forever. They are still members of our Creed in their hearts, and their children will remember our Tenants."

"I'm not worried about that." Yusuf snapped, turning his head slightly. Sensing his mistake, he immediately returned himself to the ale, taking little comfort in his reflection.

"Then why are you so melancholy? There is no fighting, no corruption, no Templars…we have won, Yusuf."

Minutes passed, and the air between the two friends filled with hiccups, laughs, belches and song.

"Perhaps," Dogan suggested slowly, "Perhaps you should retire as well, _ogretmen_."

Yusuf snorted, "And allow the Byzantines to return a year later and stick a blade between my ribs?"

Dogan gritted his teeth in irritation, "But what if that day never comes? What if we've already beaten the Templars?"

"You can never be sure of that. Someone needs to stay alert and keep Istanbul safe."

"It doesn't have to be you," Dogan argued, "Think, Yusuf. Haven't you earned a little rest? A family of your own?"

That was a low blow and both men knew it. The Turk had never known much in the way of family, and it was no secret that at thirty-eight, Yusuf was considering his bachelor status in a big way. But dragging the topic out of the blue and sticking it under his nose when there was supposed to be a _drink _there…that was despicable.

Unable to respond with a tacky comeback, Yusuf slid from his stool with a grunt and lumbered away, leaving Dogan to mull over his sharp words. Yusuf tried to smile at the recruits who brushed past him, but each one just made him more and more depressed. It was as if the entire Order were leaving the next morning.

Just as he was pondering whether or not to leave the pub, Yusuf's thoughts were visited by the floating music of a flute. It was a wandering melody, and its indecisiveness drew Yusuf closer. He followed the mysterious notes of the flute until he arrived at a darker corner of the establishment, where a hooded figured sat cross-legged beside a basket.

"_Iyi aksamlar, efendim,_" (good evening, sir) Yusuf greeted the musician, who looked up and ceased to play, "You handle your craft with grace, I see."

A thin voice replied, "That is but the least of my graces. For a meager ten coins, I will show you the most nimble creature in the Empire."

Yusuf considered, but consented eventually. He needed something to take his mind off his troubles, and ten _akce _was nothing too much.

He pressed the small talents into the entertainer's hand and took a seat in the dirt. The flutist's grin widened and her hood fell to reveal dark skin and braided hair.

She removed the lid of her basket and then returned the pipe to her lips. The melody began quiet and slow. Yusuf was momentarily surprised to find a cobra rising from the wicker oval, but he relaxed when the snake made no move to harm.

The flutist continued to play, her song now twisting and coiling. Her cobra watched intently, its forked tongue licking its lips before gliding forth.

Yusuf's eyes widened as the girl allowed the snake to slide up her arm and wrap itself around her neck. She had been right; the reptile moved with unparalleled fluidity, as though it were silk chain dragged by an invisible dancer. While the music flowed, the cobra did not bite. Once it concluded its circuit of her shoulders, the snake looped around her waist. Its hooded head came to rest in her lap as her hips swayed with the rhythm of the tune.

Another minute and the ritual was finished. The cobra slithered into its basket and the charmer replaced the lid. She glanced up at Yusuf, brown eyes searching for appraisal.

"You play very well," He commended her.

Her lips split and showed off rows of pearly teeth, "That is not all I do well."

It occurred to the Bursan that she was flirting. Allah, it'd been a while since he'd had a good flirt. The time certainly seemed right for one, and yet…

He had changed. He did not appreciate the curve of her figure as he would have a year ago, and for some reason her breasts just weren't appealing. Yusuf could distinctly remember a time when he would have grinned and taken her by the hand to some shady area out back.

When had Yusuf Tazim lost his ability to have fun?

The Bursan cleared his throat and told her, "Actually, I was about to step outside for some fresh air. Care to come with me?"

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Yusuf could not recall how their discussion had turned so philosophical.

True, the atmosphere of the Halic might have been a factor in the morph. When two people are all alone in a boat on the river gazing at the stars and listening to the rolling of the water, it is only a matter of time before they start to think of life.

Still, the Mentor found it odd. He did not know this woman. She was a common snake charmer, a foreigner, some whore sitting in dirty corners of a tavern. But he felt he could talk to her about anything, and so he did.

"Anshula," he began, and the Indian turned her head, "What does the warrior do when he has finished his fight?"

There was silence for a moment. She replied, "He returns to his family, the ones he fought to protect."

Yusuf thought on that.

"But how does he know that his enemies are dead? How does he know that he is strong enough to defend his loved ones?"

"He will not be alone."

The Turk was not entirely surprised to learn that the snake charmer had figured his identity earlier on. She accepted it as part of their hypothetical conversation.

"If you wish to retire," Anshula suggested, "appoint a successor. You do not have to leave at once, merely train an apprentice to take your place."

Yusuf shook his head. "My teacher placed his trust in me when he made me Mentor of Istanbul. It is my responsibility to repay that trust."

"But must you carry your burdens in solitude?" Anshula wondered.

Another silence. All his life Yusuf Tazim had been struggling. As a child he grew up a bastard, and then an orphan. He'd scraped food from alley walls and barreled through courtyard gardens with his hands full of red gold. He'd killed hundreds of men, ended their lives with one quick and unblinking thrust.

If Yusuf lived to fight, what was life without enemies?

When they reached the docks he handed her a pouch of coins. She accepted it and thanked him, but Yusuf's thoughts still swirled in his head like a dog and a cat endlessly chasing one another. He should leave the Order along with his students and build a family. No, he should stay, the sole lookout standing on his hill and watching for Templars. No, he should do both.

There was peace in Istanbul; Yusuf should have been glad. But the opportunity to live an ordinary life was just a painful reminder that to an Assassin, there is no such thing.


	19. XIX: In Which Yusuf Wrestles A Rat

Constantinople, 1506

Not for the first time, Yusuf returned to Galata Den to the sounds of restlessness. He heard the patient droning of the gate guard, Bustenai, informing a nameless citizen that they had no business within the storehouse. The citizen fired back insisting that he knew the Mentor personally and demanded an audience (and, Yusuf admitted, his voice did sound somewhat familiar).

"Bustenai," Yusuf greeted the guard and the disagreement dissolved into silence. "What is this?"

"This man claims he is your friend, Mentor." Bustenai grunted, almost glad to be able to relinquish his post.

The stranger was commonly dressed and his face was covered with a scarf, though the weather outside was fair.

"Friends, are we?" The Bursan remarked, eyebrows raised.

"May we speak in private, please?" The citizen requested quietly.

Yusuf shrugged and turned away, leading the man to his office. If he was a Templar spy, Yusuf was more than capable of defending himself.

"_Kendini evde,_" (make yourself at home) Yusuf murmured, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. His guest nodded gratefully and took his seat.

Yusuf waited until he was sitting comfortably at his desk with his arms folded to look up. The man had undone his scarf and when Yusuf squinted, the face seemed peculiarly recognizable…

"I am sorry to have to call upon you in this fashion, Yusuf Tazim."

Yusuf gasped, straightening like a bolt, "Piri? Piri Reis, is that you?"

The navigator shifted uncomfortably, "Do not call me that. We both know I never received that rank."

The Assassin smiled, "Ah, Piri, modest as always. You were a Reis to me the day you joined the navy."

Piri chuckled, and Yusuf took a few moments to study his friend. It had been a long, long time since they'd met, perhaps fifteen years. Yusuf hadn't changed much- still wide-eyed, wild haired and adventurous. But the war had taken its toll on Captain Piri. The Reis seemed perpetually tired, and there were creases in his forehead that belonged to a man possessing far more than his thirty-nine years. He had grown a beard, neatly trimmed in contrast to Yusuf's own, but the base color of his hair was already fading.

So, Yusuf thought, this is how we look as men, not as boys.

"You must be wondering what brings this failed admiral to your doorstep." Piri began, clearing his throat.

"Indeed, and why he felt to leave his better raiment at home."

Piri laughed lightly. "I will open honestly: I want to join the Assassins, Tazim."

Yusuf raised his eyebrows, but allowed his old friend to proceed.

"Now, I know what you are thinking. But I am no longer part of the army and I have no special connection to the Sultan. I am on indefinite leave, working as a cartographer-"

"Piri, Piri," Yusuf interrupted sadly, "That's still too much. Not to mention your _cousin, _Kemal."

At mention of the Ottoman admiral who practically headed the conflict with Venice, Piri fell silent.

"You are correct in that I am less than neutral," Piri admitted after a while, "but I still wish to help. The war was a terrible waste of young lives and sturdy boats. And what caused it?" Piri asked rhetorically, "Fear. _Venedik _feared that we Ottomans would attempt to seize their territory.

"But what are these labels, Venetian, Ottoman? Artificial differences meant to separate man from his fellow man and justify baseless hatred. The navy was filled with such vehemence, and I could tolerate it no longer."

Yusuf considered, "And so now you live alone plotting maps?"

"_Evet,_ but I am capable of so much more."

The Mentor shook his head, "I am sorry, old friend. Truly I am. But you are too well known, too connected. Most of my recruits are rebels or mercenaries, nameless men."

"Was Ishak Pasha not a vizier?"

"A fair point," Yusuf allowed, "but my stance is clear."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Piri stayed at Galata Den a little longer, but in the end he agreed with Yusuf that perhaps he was not meant for specialized combat. The two friends enjoyed the walk back to Piri's workshop near the Grand Bazaar, and despite the work that awaited him Yusuf allowed himself to be invited inside.

The workshop was small and a mite cramped, but cozy as well. Piri settled into his desk while Yusuf looked around. He admired the tall bookshelves and maps that adorned the walls.

However, it was the open chest that captured Yusuf's attention. Inside he found jars of marked gunpowder- expensive and effective gunpowder. There were also multiple stashes of bomb ingredients scattered about, and Yusuf suspected there were even more where he couldn't see them.

"Taken up another hobby, Piri?" Yusuf asked casually, tossing a bag of British gunpowder in his hand.

"That is one of the reasons I went on leave," Piri explained, "I've come up with some brilliant bomb designs, but they are what the military would call 'unrefined'."

Yusuf replaced the bag in the chest and shut the lid. He bounced back onto his feet and approached the cartographer's desk.

"Tell me more."

"Most of them are diversionary," Piri shrugged, "A bomb filled with lamb's blood, for example. Toss one at a crowd of passersby and expect an army of Janissaries in seconds."

"Lamb's blood?" Yusuf repeated, fingers coming to play with the ends of his beard. "What other components have you?"

Piri grinned, "Ah, now I am of use."

"You certainly are," Yusuf nodded, then paused. "Perhaps you might still join the Assassins, Piri, but only as a…an advisor." He shifted through the maps on the desk to reveal sketches of bomb casings beneath, "I would even pay you for some of these…"

"I think I could like that," Piri agreed, "That way I do not owe my allegiance to you, nor to the Sultan. And I can still make a difference in this pitiful charade called 'patriotism'."

"I will still need to speak with my men, but I'm sure we can work something out."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Yusuf had lived in Istanbul a long time, but he'd never really accustomed to the stench of her underground passageways. The smell was new each time he descended: yesterday the most prominent odors were that of sweat mixed with dog saliva, today it was human excrement with a hint of mold.

And yet the tunnels were much quicker and less tiring than marching across the whole of Kostantiniyye, so Yusuf felt he could stomach the reek for just a while longer.

As his feet guided him through the passage, the only light emanating from the lantern placed at the entrance, Yusuf thought. The city still rested in harmony. The Templars, from what he could understand, were thrown into disarray with the sudden uprooting of the Borgia family, their most potent asset.

Lately, Yusuf had looked into the Borgia affair. He still remembered the Venetian Assassin's account of the situation, though it had been four years already. Cesare Borgia, notorious general and charming madman, was finally exiled from Rome. His father the Pope (Grandmaster of the Templar Order) had been dead three years already, but somehow the Templars still managed to retain some control in Italy…

Until their last agents were hunted down and broken by the same man whose name had dogged Yusuf since he first heard it in 1492: Ezio Auditore da Firenze.

Yusuf grinned, impressed that he'd remembered correctly. The Turk kept in contact with most of the Assassin Mentors in other countries, but Ezio was different. The letters Yusuf received from Rome (when they were not immediately being filtered by Dogan) were signed 'Niccolo', and whenever the Auditore did write personally he seemed…distracted. Out of it, in a way Yusuf couldn't figure without meeting the man. Distantly Yusuf wondered if he ever would.

A brief rustling noise shook the Bursan from his thoughts. Yusuf's hand hovered to his sword and he crouched into a defensive stance.

Then the rat came flying at him.

The thing was so enormous it threw the Assassin to the ground, where his first thought was horror that his hair and clothes would become stained with the tunnel's stench.

His second thought was that a rodent the size of a wolf was snapping angrily at his throat and spraying foam all over his face.

Yusuf yelped in pain and shock as the animal thrashed and received a mouthful of scum for his trouble. The Bursan spit back at the rabid thing and managed to force it off.

The rat (or whatever it was) slunk low to the ground and whipped its wiry tail, preparing for another strike, while Yusuf climbed to his feet hastily. Finally he managed to draw his blade, breathing heavily to restore wind he didn't realize had been knocked from his lungs.

When the rodent lunged again, Yusuf was ready. He swung his saber like a bat, slicing the animal's nasty jaw in two. It howled in agony and collapsed to the side, where Yusuf finished it with a thrust to the heart.

Visibly shaking, Yusuf didn't stop to think until he'd successfully exited onto the streets of Galata.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

A few months later, Yusuf sat in Piri's workshop sipping tea and nursing a bandaged hand.

Since Piri's unofficial entrance into the Assassin Brotherhood, Yusuf had taken to visiting his apartment often. The Reis was excellent company, still retaining the sharp wit that had drawn them together as boyhood friends. Not to mention Yusuf could not resist poking and prodding Piri's advanced bomb sets, pestering the cartographer until he promised to teach Yusuf his secrets.

In truth, Piri admitted that he was glad Yusuf talked him out of joining the Assassins as a recruit. He enjoyed the lack of responsibility and found that he couldn't remove his connections to the Empire even if he wanted to. Besides, Yusuf could always use another friend in the court.

And so life continued to roll by as gently as spice on the wind. The peace left Yusuf with much free time, so he took a more lax control of the Brotherhood. He tasked Dogan with the paperwork, but did most of the cordial letter writing himself. At least once or twice a week, Yusuf would stop by Piri's to plot and gossip. Although the Bursan once remarked this activity made him feel like an old woman, the visits were nice, relaxing, and a great opportunity for Yusuf to run his mouth off the way he just couldn't with Dogan and his students.

It were as if the arrival of Piri Reis undid all wrong in Istanbul. Yusuf had never felt more at peace.


	20. XX: In Which Yusuf Sings About Turtles

Constantinople, 1507

The first thing he felt was an itching, irritating pain in his back. Yusuf groaned and rolled an inch to his right. His spine felt stiff as a plank, and creaked just as loudly.

Slowly and painful, the Turk pulled himself into a sitting position. He did not yet have the strength to open his eyes. No, those stayed shut, almost as though his eyelashes had somehow morphed to a material heavier than iron.

While he groped about in an effort to identify his surroundings, the Assassin attempted to remember his name. He was lying in a bed, that much he knew. But whose bed? Why? Where? For how long? The answers to these questions remained mysteries.

In what appeared to be a mutiny of sorts, Yusuf's eyelids raised themselves and exposed his sensitive irises to light. This instantly triggered a pulsing in the front of his head, which forced the man's lids shut once more. Which was just as well, since the sunlight had all but blinded him in the first place.

However he was now awake. With a sigh, Yusuf realized that sleep would not return to him. He rose to his feet.

The room seemed much more familiar now. A bed behind him, a window to his right, a desk with clothing to his left, and a floor covered with carpets. This was the room that Yusuf slept in when he stayed at the Galata Den. Yes, the Bursan's mind was finally beginning to piece things together.

Somewhat groggily, Yusuf pulled on a tunic and wrapped his headband around his forehead. He doesn't have the patience to strap on his Mentor's robes and sash, and he was aware that his clumsy fingers would sooner fall off his hands than fasten buckles on armor.

And so our poorly dressed Assassin dragged himself from his room to the dining area where he blankly munched on some fruit. As usual, the Den was empty. Yusuf had come to accept this fact with bitter recognition. His breakfast of a pear and two apples went uninterrupted. It even succeeded in rousing his muggy spirits a touch.

But these spirits were dashed as soon as Yusuf realized he had nothing to do today.

To most, the Turk told himself as he marched to his office, this would be a happy development. Who wouldn't embrace a day off of work?

Yusuf hated off days. Perhaps ten or fifteen years ago he would've been more than pleased to lounge about all day in bed (with company), or spend the afternoon at the bazaar. But at present, free time only gave him a headache.

He had changed. Even though he hadn't wanted to.

The Bursan reached his office without incident. There, he fell into his desk chair and rested his head on the table, exhaling. Its cool wood surface was wonderfully soothing on his pulsing forehead. He lay there for a few moments. Then he valiantly picked himself up and shifted through the pile of parchment sitting on the desk's edge.

Bumbling digits tore through envelopes and unfolded letter after letter. Yusuf's tired eyes were made to work harder than they bargained for that morning. As he scanned an ill written line repeatedly, the Turk wondered if this was the reason his face had become so saggy in recent years.

The letters were from all corners of the city but none stood out in importance. Notices from the Ottoman police force were examined first, then requests from the Thieves' and Mercenaries' guilds. After reading through each memo, Yusuf removed a corresponding piece of parchment from his desk, preparing to draft a reply.

However try as he might, his hands simply would not cooperate as well as his eyes. Yusuf could not think of anything to say other than 'as you wish', and even if he did his penmanship was atrocious that day. Several sheets of finely woven paper were mercilessly sacrificed to the rubbish bin before Yusuf finally called it quits.

As he usually did when the situation became unbearable, Yusuf decided to go for a walk.

Of course, if he'd known of the trouble this little stroll would bring him, the Assassin almost certainly would have elected to stay in his office and write for the rest of the week.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Fair weather was something of a consolation to our tired Turk as he marched through the streets of Galata. The sun had thoughtfully hidden behind a sheath of clouds, drawing a hazy atmosphere and a slight premonition of rain. However Yusuf was pleased by it- this meant he wouldn't have to spend his time outside squinting.

As the Mentor recalled the fact that he had no activities planned, he plotted the park as his destination. Previously, Yusuf had gone gallivanting towards the _Halic _when acquiring fresh air. However after an amount of interruptions (since the above statement was common knowledge), the Bursan was forced to claim a different location as safe haven.

Yusuf's shoes expertly navigated the uphill climb. He inhaled deeply as he walked, his nose taking delight in the many scents of Istanbul: spices, perfumes, frying oil and flowers. Of course there were many stenches as well, but after thirty-two years of living in the Empire's capitol, Yusuf had grown accustomed to them.

He soon reached the park. It was a small area; really more of a clearing than anything else, but it had a bench and a nice view. Yusuf sighed and took a seat, smiling. He could hardly remember a time where a nice stroll had not renewed his fortitude.

And yet…after a few moments' rest, the muggy feeling returned. While the pain in his forehead had receded long ago, some strange swirling sensation stayed behind. When he rose, Yusuf was overcome with dizziness. The Turk sat immediately, rubbing his cheek with an idle hand; something felt very odd indeed.

Galata Den had been empty when he awoke, but that was nothing new. Yusuf had also failed to meet with Dogan yet- a rarity, but still rather commonplace. There must be something that he'd forgotten to do. But what?

Yusuf did not have to wonder for very long. His musings were swiftly interrupted by a stinging blow to the side of his face, which all but startled him off the bench.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

The Turk spun about wildly in an effort to find his assailant.

An elderly woman, her face dominated by a furious scowl, stared down at him. She looked ready to strike again.

"_Ozur dilerim?"_ (excuse me) Asked the Assassin weakly.

It didn't seem possible, but her frown deepened until her skin was as wrinkled as a dried plum.

"How dare you feign innocence!" She declared, outraged, "I know what you did. My husband may be a pushover, but I will not let this disgusting act go unpunished."

"Listen, _kadın _(lady), I really don't-"

His protest earned him another vicious slap. The hag exclaimed:

"You're the _yaramaz (_rascal) who vandalized my family's fruit stall! And when you were done painting those obscene phrases on the counters and walls, you made off with a basket of apples and pears!"

Oh, Yusuf thought to himself, that's why the Den's fruit bowl looked so fresh.

The Turk blinked and shook himself.

"Please, I don't understand what you're talking about." He tried to explain, spreading his open palms in a gesture of helplessness, "I don't remember doing any of the things-"

"I thought you'd deny it," The old witch harrumphed, "Which is why I brought this."

She pulled a small knife from the pocket of her robe and all but threw it into Yusuf's hands. Yusuf peered at the sharp object in faint acknowledgment.

"You left that embedded in our front door."

The Assassin was at a loss for words. He'd never seen this woman or her fruit stand before in his life, and yet she clearly had possession of his throwing dagger. There was no denying that it was his- it matched the other four strapped to his shoulder-guard back at the Den perfectly.

Unable to defend his innocence any longer, Yusuf deeply apologized and offered vast sums of money as compensation. The old lady gruffly consented and removed herself from the park. When their transaction was done, Yusuf's lingering feeling of bewilderment had tripled in potency.

Something was definitely wrong.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

No more evidence presented itself within the course of the next half hour, and Yusuf found it difficult to conduct his investigation without any.

Yusuf needed a distraction, something to take his mind off the many gnawing questions he couldn't direct at anyone but himself. So he did what most people do:

He found a place to eat.

The Turk was less than picky because he was particularly frustrated. The first food vender he ran across would suffice (though he was no longer in the mood for anything citrus-related).

That vendor was soon revealed to be a baker. A relieved smile split Yusuf's lips as he drew near, enjoying the lofty smell of bread on the air. The shop was a Romanesque stall with a colorful awning that supplied shade. It was located on a corner and equipped with a backdoor that led to the street. A friendly-looking man with a bushy beard stood at the counter, waving his hand about as though wielding a magic rod that brought in customers.

"Good morning, _efendim._" Yusuf greeted the baker as he stepped up to the shop. The man paused for a moment and blinked at Yusuf in surprise. "Might I purchase a roll-?"

"Is this some sort of joke?" Demanded the vendor, eyes narrow and fists curled in indignation. "You've a lot of nerve showing your face here."

"Er," Yusuf felt his polite exterior shed itself like an insect's skeleton.

The not-so-friendly bearded person opened his mouth to say more, and an angry blush filled his face. But before he could start, the stall's backdoor opened and a woman entered.

Yusuf peered over the counter as she approached, handling her burden of a basket and jug easily. She was pretty, young, charming- a happy girl.

But the moment she locked eyes with the Mentor, her happiness fled. Her mouth gaped and her arms failed her. The basket's contents spilled across the floor and the jug shattered on impact. Both men watched as her eyes went wide and then she collapsed onto the ground in a dead faint.

For the same time in two hours, Yusuf found himself speechless.

"You see? You see what you've done?" Cried the shopkeeper before stooping to the woman's level and hoisting her up into one of the store's seats.

Unable to form a proper defense, Yusuf wisely kept quiet.

"She's been like this for hours, the poor thing." Explained the baker from behind the counter, "When you crashed through her window last night you practically obliterated her nerves!"

It took a while for the Assassin's mouth to properly expel a single word:

"…Window?"

"Yes!" Exclaimed the bearded baker, who now whirled around to face Yusuf furiously, "You are the madman who was dancing on the rooftops last night, aren't you?"

"I-I'm very sorry…" Yusuf stammered, brain malfunctioning under the stress of a second irrefutable accusation. It was as though he had lost his ability to communicate altogether.

"I don't want to hear it," Scoffed the merchant. He waved a hand in dismissal and then bent to retrieve something from a drawer behind the counter. "Just take this and leave us."

Yusuf had thoroughly assumed that he could not be any more surprised by this conversation. However, when the baker deposited an Ottoman hookblade on the table, Yusuf admitted he'd been wrong.

"My hookblade?" Yusuf wondered aloud, staring at the contraption uncomprehendingly.

"You left that behind."

The Bursan silently took his favored weapon in his arms. After a moment he said:

"If there's any way I can redeem myself-"

"I don't want to hear any more. Leave and never show your face to me again."

Yusuf nodded and turned abruptly, meandering away in a sort of daze. He was walking down the road, cradling his hookblade like a little girl cradles a doll, when he came across a recognizable white hood.

"Dogan!" The Mentor called happily, overjoyed to finally meet someone who wouldn't react to his presence with rage.

The Jerusalemite seemed preoccupied when he acknowledged his master.

"I have been having the strangest day, _arkadasim._" Began Yusuf warily, "You wouldn't believe how people have just been…"

The Turk trailed off as he spied the object Dogan carried. It was a large box, containing many, many copies of one piece of paper.

"Dogan? What are those? What are you doing?"

"Hm?" Dogan shook himself, "Ah, apologies, _Öğretmen__. _(teacher) I have been very busy lately."

"Busy?" Yusuf repeated with a frown, "What do you mean?"

Now it was Dogan's turn to look confused.

"Yusuf, you're the one that ordered me to post these flyers. Remember?"

Yusuf felt the blood leave his face as an expression of despair seized it. Even his most trusted student… this was either a brilliant prank, or the Master Assassin of Istanbul was losing his sanity. Or perhaps he had a doppelganger running around the whole of Kostantiniyye without any pants.

"Mentor, you do not look well."

"I don't suppose you could tell me what's going on?" The Bursan more or less begged.

Dogan shifted the box in his arms and exhaled nervously, "Er, _evet, _I suppose. We were all gathered together at the Romani tavern for your birthday party last night- that is, you, Zavi, Kesafa, the Reis, myself, and a few others I don't recall."

Birthday party, Yusuf turned the words over in his mind. Yes, that did sound familiar…

"I had to leave early- business with the Janissaries. When I left, you were drinking heartily with Captain Piri. Late that night you came to me in Galata Den and told me you wanted six hundred copies of this drawing posted around the district."

The Mentor contemplated this new information, processing it while a distracted thumb brushed his beard. He reached forward and snatched one of the pieces of parchment from the box, studying it.

It appeared to be a drawing, though its lines were shaky and unclear. There were three figures, each sporting a label. To put it plainly, the paper was an obscene doodle featuring the Sultan and his two sons engaging in an intimate sexual act.

"Dogan." Yusuf said flatly, "Where did you get this picture?"

"You gave it to me last night. After you'd returned from the tavern."

The Assassin's eyes cautiously slid to the copies in the box.

"I want two things to happen now. First, I want you to destroy every existing print of this drawing."

"Er, of course, Mentor."

"Second, I want to know exactly what happened to me last night."

"As I said before, I left the party early. But I think I know whom to ask…"

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

There were many reasons for Yusuf to feel uncomfortable in that seedy, dirt floored tavern. One of the largest was the fact that when he and Dogan first entered, the bartender reacted by grinning wildly and reducing all prices to zero.

As if this were not enough, Yusuf felt more eyes on him with every step he took. His right hand curled around Dogan's bicep fearfully, and for the second time that day Yusuf felt awkwardly similar to a little girl. Fortunately, the Jerusalemite appeared oblivious to his Mentor's anxiety. He led the older man across the room without incident to a table where a pretty young woman stood with a rag.

"Excuse us," Dogan greeted the woman, inclining his head respectfully. She looked up from her cleaning and Yusuf was quick to disentangle himself from his student, coughing abruptly. "Were you on hand during last night's _olay_? (event)"

Her hazel eyes watched the Turk with deep distrust. A Romani robe of navy hue enwrapped her lithe body, and her skin was a pleasant bronze. Her face carried few wrinkles, framed by long, dark hair. Yusuf found himself blushing under her intense glare.

"…I was." She said slowly.

"Excellent," Dogan smiled, ignorant of the extreme suspicion she measured his Mentor with, "Would you be able fill us in then? It seems my companion has forgotten what transpired."

The Romani scoffed, "Concerning what? He was a busy man last night."

"How much did I drink?" Yusuf mumbled miserably, skin tone now an audacious scarlet.

She shrugged and resumed work on the table, moving the rag about in a circular motion, "I lost count after twenty-three mugs."

Yusuf groaned and leaned his head on Dogan's shoulder. The dizziness had returned in full force.

"What else…did he do?"

"Many, many things. His friends were all about as drunk as he was, so they didn't have any objections to the ridiculous _korkak _(chicken shit) he suggested."

"Oh?"

She sighed and stretched out a sore shoulder, "There was an announcement. 'Said because he was turning forty year old it was time to loosen up. Enjoy life more or something."

Yusuf felt his face go from mortified red to nauseous green. He wasn't certain he wanted to hear any more.

"He grabbed a bunch of wine bottles and poured them on people, then he climbed onto the counter and sang about turtles. Once the tavern's few remaining customers had passed out, he ran out into the night screaming about something called 'ziplines'."

"Well, there you have it," Dogan concluded with a small throat clearing and a hesitant hand on Yusuf's back, "you must have visited those other people after you left the tavern."

The Bursan's expression was dark enough to wither the sun.

"I will never drink again."


	21. XXI: In Which Yusuf Hits A Girl

Constantinople, 1508

Though Yusuf had always admired boats for their otherworldly grace and maneuverability, he was very glad to step onto solid ground.

The Master Assassin waved a farewell to his ferryman and then began a trot up the pier. The port bustle had been fairly reduced since midday, cooling into a steady stream of workers and commuters on their way home to a hearty dinner. For Yusuf, the situation couldn't be more ideal; that is what bored him.

Exempting the splashing of the Bosphorus' waters, the North Imperial district was quite silent. The sun had set hours ago and walkways were calm. It was the kind of setting that put the Bursan to sleep. However, Yusuf did not have time to partake in such luxuries that evening- he was meant to meet with a group of Assassin sympathizers in Bayezid.

So our heroic adventurer marched on, stretching his neck from time to time as he made his way through Istanbul's resting streets. He barely even noticed when a hand darted out from an alleyway and grasped his wrist.

"Hey, you!" A male voice whispered fiercely.

"Hm?" Yusuf blinked slowly, eyeing his frantic caller with lethargy.

"I need your help. Can you spare a moment?"

Yusuf yawned, covering his mouth with his free palm. Then he took a moment to study his companion in more detail:

The man's face was tightly pulled into a frown. He possessed some brown stubble, but didn't seem particularly old- somewhere in his thirties, Yusuf imagined.

No, what was most striking was the fact that he was stark naked.

Well, putting it that way is a bit dishonest. His private areas were actually covered by what appeared to be a laundered sheet, freshly snatched from a clothes' line. Yusuf could tell it was stolen because it still had the pins in it.

"Er," Yusuf cleared his throat, now a bit more awake, "I'm not sure I can help with your specific set of issues…"

"It was that damned brat," Replied the indecent vehemently, "she did this to me! The witch made off with my clothes, too."

"Excuse me, but what are you talking about?"

He indicated the dark road behind him, "Down this way there's a woman dressed in a man's garb. She steals from whomever passes through the alley-"

"Wait, you knew that and you went through anyway?"

"It's a shortcut, alright?" The man cried angrily, but quickly interrupted himself in an effort to get back on course: "I met her just a few minutes ago. She said I wasn't carrying enough _akce, _so she took my clothes."

"That's…" Yusuf paused, waiting for the right word. "…Unfortunate." He finished awkwardly.

"Please, catch that bitch and get my dignity back!" Implored the nude one.

"Why should I? Dignity is hardly a going commodity."

His expression soured immediately, but in a second the man asked:

"How much do you want? I can offer you two-hundred coins."

"Have you anything more valuable than that?" Yusuf wondered.

His companion sighed, "Alright, the _iskarta_ (wastrel) also took an heirloom from me. A gold pin, set with a sapphire. It is my wife's, she insists I wear it…but truthfully the thing itches like hell."

Yusuf raised an eyebrow.

"It's bound to be worth something. If you find it, you can keep it."

"Fine," The Bursan agreed, shrugging. It was hardly an attractive deal, but it was more interesting than attending a meeting he knew would end in snores. "Stay put, I'll be back soon."

"I'm not exactly going anywhere without my robe!" The exposed Turk hissed as Yusuf slipped past him.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The alley was a long one, and even a little clean due to its use. Yusuf could understand why it would be so alluring a shortcut- its length cut straight from the Imperial market to the riverside apartments. A short trip home, guaranteed. In all honesty, he was surprised only one bandit had sought this territory.

He continued along the passage's narrow road for a couple of minutes, crawling about at a casual pace. Yusuf naturally managed to appear distracted, an easy mark. It wasn't long before he felt eyes on him.

Yusuf proceeded, ignoring the prickling sensation at the base of his scalp for as long as possible. Finally he pulled to a halt and closed his eyes. A faint sound, almost like the blowing of a breeze. And then…

The Bursan ducked as a club went sailing over his head.

"Hey!" Complained a disembodied whine.

Yusuf rolled forward and turned about to face his assailant. It was as the robbed man had described: a fierce young woman, her torso draped in the wraps of an Ottoman citizen, but her legs were clad in military pants. Her feet went without covering.

She snarled and threw herself at him again, waving her blunt ended weapon about furiously. While Yusuf was far the superior warrior, this small person was a ball of energy. She left no room for a counterattack or side blow; only pressed the offensive until her opponent's defense weakened.

The Assassin tried to get around her, but it was costing him all his attention to keep that mace away from his face. _Allah, she's fast, _Yusuf thought to himself.

It was pitiful, really. He towered more than a foot above her, and yet this nameless woman was quite efficiently pounding him into the dirt. In truth, Yusuf was afraid of retaliating because she barely seemed older than a child.

Eventually, he slipped up. The bandit dropped to her knees and removed Yusuf's grip on solid ground with a swoop of her leg. For a moment, the Turk flew through the air. Then his back connected solidly with the dirt and his skull crashed against the earth, unpleasantly throttling his brain.

Instantly, there was a sharp instrument against his throat. A low voice ordered:

"Give me your money or I'll kill you."

Yusuf raised an eyebrow, "Why don't you just kill me and take the money yourself?"

He watched in satisfaction as she blinked and then steadied herself. Apparently, such a thought had never occurred.

"Because your body is too cumbersome to dispose of."

"Really? I would think the risk is worth the reward. After all, you can help yourself to everything I'm carrying. And bodies get dumped into the _Halic _all the time."

She was silent for a moment, and he could see her eyes considering his proposal. But she quickly shook her head and replied:

"This is my operation, _Gerizekalı!_(moron) Stay out of it and you'll stay alive."

Yusuf chuckled. In the end, she was only a child, following the incompetent example of the idiots who came before her.

"I'm afraid it's too late for me to back out now. Do you mind getting off, though? My shoulders have been bothering me lately-"

"Hey, I'm serious!" The bandit assured him, pressing her dull blade back against his throat, "Hand over all of your _akce _right now or I will kill you."

"We've been through this," Yusuf rolled his eyes, "You're a terrible highwayperson."

Her eyes narrowed irately and her cheeks burned red.

"Honestly, my twelve-year-old nephew is more professional…"

Yusuf smiled as the metal left his skin and instead a small fist gripped his collar, hoisting him from the ground.

"Listen, you-" She began in an infuriated hiss, but was suddenly cut off by the sounding of armored footsteps.

She froze, her face going slack as the Ottoman guard became more pronounced.

"…Do you hear that?" She asked, cold fear lining her voice.

"Yes, that'd be the guards," Yusuf agreed, "You can get off of me now, and we can both get away before they arrive."

However, unfortunately for the Master Assassin, his assailant appeared to have entered some sort of hypnotic trance. She stayed where she was, completely unwilling to move. Her eyes turned wide and glassy, and her weapons fell to the dirt with a clatter.

"Excuse me? Are you alright?" He asked, slowly sitting up. She slid off of him as he rose, petrified. The jangle of metal boots became more pronounced.

"Hello?"

Her skin swiftly lost its color and she began to murmur: "Loud, loud, loud, loud."

Yusuf watched worriedly as she continued to mumble to herself. The guards were growing closer, and he didn't care to be caught in these circumstances.

"Come on, we have to get out of here." He told her, climbing to his feet. She stayed kneeling on the floor, shaking her head. Her lips quivered in some unimaginable terror.

_Great, _Yusuf sighed, _a perfect lunatic this is. _

Still, he could not abandon her. As deranged and confused a young woman she might have been, Yusuf couldn't bring himself to surrender her to the torture of an Ottoman dungeon. That, and she'd proven herself quite a fighter. He imagined that with some discipline, she could be a credit to the Order.

_An Order now retired, _Yusuf reminded himself bitterly.

"_Haydi,_" (Come on) he grunted as he pulled her up by her forearms. "Time to leave now."

"Stop, stop, stop." She answered, though she didn't seem to be speaking to anyone in particular.

It astounded him how someone with so much spirit could be broken by the clinking of armor.

"Who is there?" A call echoed down the alley, "Identify yourselves!"

"We're escaping now," Yusuf muttered in a singsong tone as he took her by the wrists and dragged her through the alley. She stumbled behind him, whimpering strangely.

Just when they were about to reach the mouth of the passage, something incredibly peculiar happened:

The girl started to wail.

Now, how Yusuf had even gotten involved with such a madwoman, the Assassin could no longer say. But the fact of the matter was that there would be no more yanking her away and no more evading the Ottoman guards.

"Hey, hey," He attempted unsuccessfully to relax her. He gripped her shoulders and smiled nervously, as one does with a shrieking baby. "Maybe you shouldn't cry right now, you know?"

She only continued to sob as though an unspeakable agony was ripping through her heart.

"There!" A shout from their pursuers.

It seemed there was no other way. Yusuf inhaled and uttered an apology beneath his breath. He then grasped the young woman's head in his hand and rammed it against one of the alley's narrow walls, effectively silencing her.

"_Üzgünüm, tekrar,_" (sorry, again) Yusuf groaned as her body rebounded into his, now entirely limp. It was fortunate that she was so petite, as he was easily able to lift her into his arms and run from the scene. They swiftly found haven with the nearest Assassin Den.

-0-0-0-0-0-

It was late when he returned, but fortunately the Den Master always kept a candle burning in the entrance chamber. Yusuf closed the door to the shelter and nodded at the Assassin who came to greet him.

"Any luck?" his student asked.

Yusuf responded in the negative, and the two walked to the back of the room, a rest area for injured or fatigued members of the Order. The young bandit who'd accosted Yusuf that evening lay sleeping under a blanket of soft pillows.

After depositing her with the Den Master, the Bursan had returned to the scene of the attack. Despite his profession, Yusuf was a man of his word: he searched the entire alley for his 'employer's' clothes, coins, and heirloom. However he was not able to recover them- the Mentor suspected he took too long in retrieving the man's items and so he called the guard.

The forty-one-year-old Turk sat down beside the slumbering girl, sighing. His student stood across from him.

"Do you have any idea why that happened?" Yusuf asked after recounting the incident to the Den Master.

The man considered for a moment and then replied, "I have been reading about rare medical conditions as of late. A doctor who's set up shop outside the Den lent me a treatise about them."

"She isn't sick," Yusuf protested with a frown, "This _Ufaklık _(pipsqueak) came flying at me so fast she nearly ripped my arms off."

"That isn't what I meant, Mentor." Explained the other Assassin, "Illness of the senses. While her spirit and body remain perfectly healthy, she perceives the world differently than we do."

Yusuf made to answer that he didn't understand, but at that moment their guest sneezed. Both men turned to watch her eyelids fluttered and revealed grey irises.

"Hello there," the Bursan smiled, "How are you feeling?"

The girl cleared her throat and squinted up at Yusuf. Then she said, "I remember you. You're the idiot who got me caught."

"Saved your life, actually," Yusuf corrected.

"W-what do you want with me?" She countered, previously gentle eyes turning hard and narrow. She sat up and scooted away from the Assassins, swaying slightly.

"_Sakin, sakin,_ (calm down)" The Den Master spoke gently, moving to support her as dizziness threatened to fell her, "You took a heavy blow to the head."

"Uh," She blinked slowly, confusion rolling across her face.

"I have a question for you, if I may," Yusuf began curiously, capturing the Bandit's attention. "Do you remember what happened before waking here?"

"Er, _evet,_" A nod, "I'd just made off with that rich sod's robes and enough _akce_ for a week. Then I ran into you, there was a fight, and…"

Yusuf watched her carefully, beckoning her to continue.

Tears suddenly formed on her lashes and she began to shake again. The Den Master took of note of this with much interest.

"The guards came, right?"

The Bandit slapped her hands over her ears and quivered.

"The noise, the noise. I keep hearing it in my head."

"I don't understand," Yusuf told her, brows knitting together out of bewilderment and concern, "What do you mean? What noise?"

"Ah, Mentor!" The student proclaimed, placing a hand on his teacher's shoulder. "It all makes sense now."

"What makes sense?" The Bursan growled, nailing the Den Master with a harsh glare.

The Assassin ran from the scene, dashing up the steps to the Den's second level. Yusuf could only sit there perplexedly while his companion prepared to launch into a second panic.

Fortunately, the Master returned soon. He had with him a jug of water and a cup. Yusuf watched blankly as he sat himself next to the girl and poured the water.

Miraculously, the Bandit ceased her sniveling and turned towards the cup keenly. The Den Master smiled and returned to liquid from the cup to the jug, then back again.

"What in the name of Istanbul are you doing."

"Look," His student whispered. The girl seemed to be in a trance, "See? She likes the sound of the water."

"Sound? You're saying this whole thing relies on sound?"

"Yes," confirmed the Master, "It's caused by sound. You see, Mentor, the treatise I read contained a case very similar to this one.

"It was labeled, 'hatred of sound'. Apparently, a man was brought to the doctor who wrote the account kicking and yelling. No one could understand what had happened to him. They said they'd found him like that outside a tavern."

"That hardly seems unusual." Yusuf replied skeptically.

"No, it doesn't, but listen," the Den Master continued, still pouring the water. By now the young woman was positively serene, smiling happily. "The doctor poured some water for the patient to drink, but instead he only stared at it. For some reason, the pouring of water made the man calm down immediately. But, whenever the doctor tried to drink something himself, the patient would fly into a rage, throwing whatever he could find."

"What are you trying to say?"

"The sound of a person swallowing is what drove his patient mad. Apparently, certain sounds, even ordinary sounds, can cause a person to suffer immensely."

Yusuf was going to argue further, but he suddenly remembered the footsteps they'd heard. The Bandit had seemed completely fair-headed until she'd hear the jingling footsteps. Perhaps footsteps were her trigger sounds?

"I see now," He relented, brushing his beard with a curled index finger, "Is there anything to be done for it?" He still wished for the girl to join the Order. She was too good a fighter for him not to try…

The Den Master shrugged and put down his water jug.

"It's not a condition that we understand. That case was the only one of its kind in the entire book. However, it might be possible for the affected individual to control their fury, at least for a little while."

Yusuf sighed.

"It's true what he says," the Bandit spoke quietly, "whenever I hear footsteps, something just comes over me…"

"It's alright," Yusuf told her, though he could not hide his disappointment. "Though perhaps you should consider a change in career."

"Yes," She agreed full heartedly.

"You know," The Bursan began hopefully, "you are a very skilled warrior."

She tilted her head slightly, intrigued.

"Would you consider training? It would a pleasure to take you on as my pupil."

"Training?" The girl seemed shocked, "I…but what about my disability?"

Yusuf smiled warmly, "I think with a bit of help and guidance, you could get around it. You have a very fierce mind- what you lack is discipline."

Surprise still lingered on her face, but it was slowly changing to pleasant surprise.

"Yes, I would very much like to train in the art of fighting."

"Very well. Galata tower at the break of dawn." Yusuf concluded and climbed back to his feet. He was about to turn and walk away when he stopped himself:

"How silly," he laughed, "we still have not been introduced. I am Yusuf Tazim."

The Bandit grinned, "Shabira."


End file.
